JOHN  WILLIAM  PYE 
LIBRARY  OF 


TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2018  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/agneslittlekeyor00adam_0 


AGNES 


AND  THE  LITTLE  KEY: 


OR, 

BEREAVED  PARENTS  INSTRUCTED 
AND  COMFORTED. 

BY  HER  FATHER. 

NINTH  EDITION,  KEVISED. 


BOSTON: 


TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS. 

1864. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 
NEHEMIAH  ADAMS, 

In  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


PUBLISHERS’  PREFACE 


TO  THE  EIGHTH  EDITION. 


We  are  assured  by  the  author  of  this  book  that,  in  view 
of  the  sacredly  private  experiences  which  it  contains,  it 
would  not  have  been  published  had  he  not  supposed  that 
special  pains  to  conceal  the  authorship  would  have  been 
successful.  On  being  published,  the  book  was  by  common 
consent  and  without  question  ascribed  to  its  true  source. 
We  yield,  however,  to  the  author’s  wish  in  still  withhold¬ 
ing  his  name  from  the  title-page. 

The  book  was  soon,  and  without  any  suggestion  from 
this  country,  printed  in  London.  The  Right  ITon.  and  Right 
Rev.  Archibald  Campbell,  Bishop  of  London,  had  about 
that  time  excited  the  Christian  sympathy  of  the  British 
public  by  his  great  and  sore  domestic  bereavements.  The 
London  publishers  sought  and  obtained  permission  to  dedi¬ 
cate  the  English  edition  of  this  book  to  him,  which  was 
done  as  follows  :  — 

“  To  the  Right  Hon.  and  Right  Rev.  Archibald  Camp¬ 
bell,  Lord  Bishop  of  London,  himself  an  earnest  laborer 
in  the  field  of  Christian  love,  this  volume,  written  by  one 


iv 


PUBLISHERS’  PREFACE. 


who  desires  to  impart  to  others  the  strength  and  consola¬ 
tion  and  hope  vouchsafed  to  him  in  the  house  of  mourn¬ 
ing,  is,  by  his  Lordship’s  kind  permission,  most  respectfully 
dedicated.” 

The  author  of  u  Memorials  of  Captain  Hedley  Vicars,” 
wrote  a  Preface  to  this  English  edition,  from  which  the 
following  is  extracted  :  — 

“  A  stranger  to  the  author  of  this  book,  his  name  even 
unknown  to  me,  I  feel  it  to  be  almost  a  sacrilege  to  comply 
with  the  request  to  write  a  Preface  for  it ;  fearing  lest  any 
touch  of  mine  should  mar  the  delicacy,  simplicity,  and 

beauty  of  this  memorial  monument . A  single  glance  at 

these  pages  would  have  been  introduction  enough  for  the 
volume  to  mourners  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It  .is  the 
tone  of  simple  truth,  the  reality,  in  this  record  of  an  earthly 
sorrow  gradually  gilded  and  finally  glorified  by  a  Heavenly 
Hope  and  Faith,  which  renders  it  peculiarly  suitable  to 
mourners . There  is  none  of  that  dry,  theological  con¬ 

solation,  or  hard,  unsympathizing  denunciation  of  all  im¬ 
passioned  grief,  too  frequently  assumed  in  books  written 
for  mourners . He  has  spoken  to  his  brothers  and  sis¬ 
ters  throughout  a  mourning  world . It  is  a  record  of 

reaping  in  joy  after  sowing  in  tears.” 


“5Tf)c  Apostle  f)oult  unto  ttje  iHomaints 
toritetfj,  plan  stall  rcjoncc  totttj  Ijent  tijat 
maftetfj  jogo,  aits  liepen  totttj  stottijc  folite  as 
toepen.” 


(EJwucer* 


CONTENTS. 


chapters.  paqb. 

I.  AGNES  —  Her  Sickness,  Death,  and  Burial  — 

Finding  of  the  Key, . 9 

H.  What  shall  I  do  with  the  Key  ?  .  .  .  .21 

III.  Parental  Sorrow  and  Submission,  ...  29 

IV.  Consolations, . 35 

V.  Visit  to  the  Grave  with  the  Key,  ...  45 

VL  Instructions  and  Comfort  from  the  Key,  .  .  .62 

VH.  Anniversaries  of  Bereavements,  ...  97 

VIH.  Burial  of  the  Drover’s  Child,  ....  102 
IX.  The  Boreaved  Infidel,  .....  106 

X.  He.ping  one’s  self  in  Affliction,  ....  150 
XT.  Losing  and  Leaving  Children,  .  .  .  ^  167 


(VH) 


\ 


AGNES. 


« 


CHAPTER  I. 

She  was  not  quite  one  year  old.  I  can¬ 
not  venture  to  describe  her.  My  heart 
swells  and  is  ready  to  break  at  the  thought 
of  some  sweet,  touching  feature,  some  win¬ 
ning  way,  the  posture  and  motion  of  her 
hands  or  feet,  her  inarticulate  noises  with 
her  lips,  the  pressure  of  her  mouth  against 
our  cheeks,  that  being  as  far  as  she  had 
advanced  in  kissing.  Sights  of  her  asleep, 
when  her  mother  and  I  stood  over  her  with 
lamp  in  hand,  are  as  deeply  stamped  on  my 
mind  as  views  in  the  Alps.  I  could  tell  you 
every  dimple  which  we  detected  as  she  lay 
on  her  back,  a  knee  or  arm  disengaged  from 
her  clothing.  All  her  mimicry  of  sounds  and 

(9) 


10 


AGNES. 


of  motions,  and  her  little  feats,  which  aston¬ 
ished  herself  and  made  us  shout*  her  morning 
hath,  she  a  little  image,  with  her  very  straight 
back,  plashing  the  water  with  her  feet ;  and 
other  nameless  things,  raise  the  question,  and 
leave  it  in  doubt,  whether  I  wish  there  were 
more  of  them  to  remember,  or  whether  it  is 
well  for  me  that  she  had  been  developed  no 
more.  Human  bliss  arrives  at  perfection  as 
frequently  in  such  scenes  and  experiences,  as 
when  we  have  made  calculations  for  happi¬ 
ness;  indeed,  we  are  never  more  happy  than 
during  the  little,  sudden  tournaments  of  love 
with  a  young  child;  and  the  man  who  has  a 
wife  and  child,  supplying  him  with  these  inad¬ 
vertent  pleasures,  will  find  in  the  retrospect 
that  he  was  most  happy  when  he  least  sus- 

0 

pected  it.  To  know  when  we  have  in  posses¬ 
sion  the  means  of  true  happiness,  and  to  rejoice 
m  it,  and  feel  satisfied,  is  rare.  Would  that  1 
had  thought  more  of  this  when  my  little  child 
was  with  me. 

* 

Sometimes  I  looked  at  her  with  a  feeling  of 


AGNES. 


11 


awe.  Mine,  indeed,  she  was;  but  in  what  a 
subordinate  sense!  That  perfect  frame,  that 
wondrous  mind,  that  immortal  destiny,  often 
made  me  shrink  into  nothingness  at  the  con¬ 
templation  of  her — feeling  that  God,  in  making 
her,  had  rolled  a  sphere  into  an  orbit  which  is 
measureless,  making  it  touch  mine,  but  having 
a  path  of  its  own,  which  cannot  be  compre¬ 
hended  in  that  of  another,  not  even  in  that  of 
the  earthly  parent.  I  was  glad  that  there  was 
an  infinite  God  to  possess  this  infinite  treasure, 
and  control  it;  for  it  was  too  much  for  me. 
My  enjoyment  of  her  was  often  overshadowed 
by  these  thoughts.  Still  she  was  to  me  a 
perfect  joy.  Her  beautifully  unfolding  life 
left  me  nothing  to  desire. 

But  the  destroyer  came.  It  had  been  an 
exceedingly  hot  summer,  and  cholera  infantum 
began  to  waste  the  little  face  and  frame.  We 
saw  that  she  must  die ;  we  nevertheless  main¬ 
tained  a  cheerfulness  of  feeling  which  after¬ 
ward  seemed  to  us  unnatural ;  but  no  doubt  it 
was  kindly  given,  to  bear  us  through  the  trial 


12 


AGNES. 


The  last  r  ght  that  she  was  put  to  rest,  her 
symptoms  were  favorable;  but,  early  in  the 
morning,  he  nurse  whispered  to  me,  that  the 
child  “  loo  ed  strange,”  and  she  led  my  way 
to  the  nu  sery.  The  little  patient  lay  with 
her  hand  under  her  cheek,  her  eyes  were 
raised  and  fixed  on  the  wall.  I  supposed  that 
she  was  watching  a  shadow,  and  I  spoke  to 
her  by  name.  She  did  not  move,  nor  did  she 
turn  her  eyes ;  I  spoke  again,  and  kissed  her ; 
it  was  in  ain  ;  the  fearful  truth  flashed  upon 
me,  that  she  was  convulsed.  We  watched 
her  till  sundown,  when  she  ceased  to  breathe. 

I  fear  hat  some  of  you  will  smile,  if  I  say, 
she  seemed  to  me  the  sweetest  little  thing 
that  ever  died ;  that,  as  she  lay  in  her  last 
sleep,  no  sight  could  be  quite  so  beautiful  and 
touching  ;  that  the  loss  of  a  child  never, 
probably,  awoke  such  tenderness  of  love  and 
such  grief.  Suffer  me  at  least  to  think  so, 
without  debate. 

Plow  can  I  tell  you  anything  about  the  last 
sad  scene  at  the  grave?  Enough  to  say  that 


aGNES. 


13 


each  of  us  kissed  the  sweet  face;  we  gazed  on 
her  a  few  moments,  while  tears  ran  down;  and 

some  things  were  uttered,  between  speaking 

• 

and  crying,  till  at  length  her  mother  kneeled, 
and  held  her  face  near  the  little  face  for  a 
few  moments,  without  a  sound ;  then  drew  the 
white  embroidered  blanket  over  the  little 
thing,  for  it  was  a  cold  day ;  and  thus  the  last 
“  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  ”  seemed  to  be 
said  and  heard.  I  closed  the  lid.  “  Lieth 
down  and  riseth  not,  till  the  heavens  be  no 
more ;  ”  —  what  shall  I  have  seen  and  known 
before  I  see  this  face  again!  That  simple 
thing,  the  closing  of  the  lid,  what  a  world  of 
meaning  was  in  it !  My  thoughts  were  mak¬ 
ing  a  whirlpool  about  me,  till  my  eye  was 
taken  by  the  nearer  approach  of  a  man,  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  and  rough  working  garb, 
who  respectfully  seemed  to  intimate,  We 
are  ready,  sir,  when  you  are.  0  must  we, 
must  we,  part?  Must  the  grave  have  her? 
With  an  effort,  I  said,  Thy  will  be  done.  I 
turned  the  key,  and  took  it  out  of  the  lock, 


2 


14 


AGNES. 


and  understood  how  even  good  men  could 
have  opened  their  mouths,  at  certain  times, 
against  the  day  of  their  birth.  We  waited. 
In  a  few  moments,  one  more  little  mound 
grew  up  from  the  earth;  the  clods  of  the 
valley  had  become  sweet  to  one  more  father 
and  mother. 

We  rode  away.  I  was  glad  that  the  horses 
started  off  so  fast,  though,  for  the  first  moment, 
it  shocked  me.  I  was  expecting  to  move 
away  at  the  slow,  solemn  pace  with  which  we 
came. 

Turning  a  corner  in  the  cemetery,  a  little 
stone  over  a  little  grave,  the  only  one  in  the 
enclosure,  caught  my  eye,  as  we  drove  past, 
with  this  inscription :  Charlie.  Ah,  is  Charlie 
dead  ?  I  felt  very  sorry.  Who  Charlie  was, 
I  did  not  know;  but  his  father,  I  thought,  had 
been  there  on  an  errand  like  mine.  Had  I 
met  him  in  the  street,  on  my  way  home,  some 
one  pointing  him  out  to  me,  I  would  have 
stopped  him,  and  told  him  what  I  had  seen, 
and  that  Agnes  was  dead.  For  a  moment,  the 


AGNES. 


15 


stream  of  my  grief  was  broken  and  divided 
by  that  little  headstone,  as  a  great  river  is 
divided  by  the  delta  at  its  mouth ;  but  it 
came  together  again  very  soon. 

It  is  known,  and  some  of  you  to  wrhom 
I  speak  have  had  painful  opportunity  to  know, 
that  there  has  been,  of  late  years,  an  improve¬ 
ment  in  the  little  depositories  in  which  we 
convey  the  forms  of  infants  and  young  chil¬ 
dren  to  their  last  resting-place. 

Their  shape  is  not  in  seeming  mockery  of 
the  rigid,  swathed  body ;  the  broken  lines  and 
angles  of  the  old  coffin  are  drawn  into  con¬ 
tinuous  lines ;  they  look  like  other  things,  and 
not  like  that  which  looks  like  nothing  else,  a 
coffin  ;  you  would  be  willing  to  have  such  a 
shape  for  the  depository  of  any  household 
article.  Within,  they  are  prepared  with  a 
pearly  white  lining;  the  inside  of  the  lid  is 
draped  in  the  same  way ;  the  name  is  on  the 
inside;  and  a  lock  and  key  supplant  the  re¬ 
morseless  screws  and  screw-driver. 

As  I  was  going  to  bed  that  night,  and  was 


16 


AGNES. 


taking  off  my  vest,  emptying  the  pockets,  in  a 
listless  mood,  of  whatever  had  found  its  way 
there  through  the  day,  I  drew  forth,  among 
other  things,  a  little  key,  trimmed  with  white 
satin  ribbon. 

Then  the  clouds  returned  after  the  rain. 
I  thought,  for  a  few  moments,  that  I  should 
lose  my  reason. 

Why  need  I  attempt  to  relate  the  mingled 
feelings,  with  a  particular  anguish  in  each  of 
them,  with  which  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  my 
room,  alone,  holding  that  key  in  my  hand  ? 

It  became  necessary,  at  last,  to  put  it  some¬ 
where.  But  it  was  the  most  difficult  thing  to 
dispose  of  which  ever  came  into  my  posses¬ 
sion.  I  could  neither  keep  it  nor  part  with  it. 
I  abhorred  it,  and  idolized  it.  I  wished  to  be 
rid  of  it,  and  I  clung  to  it.  There  was  a 
fearful  spell  about  it;  and  yet  it  was  a  charm, 
a  precious  treasure,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
symbol  of  my  agony.  I  hung  it  up  over  a 
picture  in  my  private  room,  for  the  night. 

But  I  lay  some  time  in  the  morning,  afraid 


AGNES. 


17 


✓ 


to  go  into  that  room.  I  felt  that  there  was 
but  one  thing  there.  I  opened  the  door,  with 
my  eyes  levelled  at  the  spot  where  I  was  to 
see  that  thing.  The  cheerful  sunlight  was 
streaming  upon  that  part  of  the  room,  and, 
how  strange  !  it  made  a  focus  on  the  key,  and 
the  light  gleamed  from  it.  I  ought  to  have 
felt,  more  than  I  did,  that  the  love  and  com¬ 
passion  of  God  was  trying  to  speak  comfort  to 
me. 

I  took  the  key,  and  wrote  the  little  name 

on  the  ribbon,  the  birth-day,  the  dying-day, 

■ 

the  day  of  burial,  the  path,  and  the  number 
of  the  burial-place. 

Enhancing  the  value  of  this  priceless  treas¬ 
ure  by  this  inscription,  I  consulted  with 
myself  what  to  do  with  it.  Perhaps  you 
would  kindly  he  willing  to  follow  me  in  my 
perplexity,  and  see  how  one  project  after 
another  arose  and  was  debated  in  my  mind, 
in  settling  the  question,  where  I  should  place 
and  keep  the  little  key.  Though  you  suffer 
the  afflicted  to  tell  their  tale  in  their  own 


2* 


18 


AGNES. 


way,  with  all  its  needless  particularity  of 
dates,  incidents,  and  strictest  regard  to  un¬ 
important  historical  succession,  I  shall  avoid 
these  things,  for  I  know  to  whom  I  speak.  A 
goodly  company  have  I  with  me,  sitting  on 
the  ground,  keeping  silence,  and  hearkening 
to  my  woe. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  question  was,  What  shall  I  do  with  the 
key  of  the  little  coffin  ? 

A  large  part  of  the  forenoon  was  spent,  to 
the  neglect  of  other  things,  in  fruitless  debates 
with  myself  as  to  the  best  way  of  keeping  this 
strange  possession.  I  had,  perhaps,  thirty 
keys,  but  never  was  I  at  a  loss  where  to  keep 
any  of  them.  Most  of  them  were  in  bunches, 
on  rings ;  the  thought  of  placing  this  among 
them  was  revolting.  I  was  afraid  of  seeing  it 
too  often,  while  I  also  wished  to  keep  it  con¬ 
stantly  in  sight.  Should  I  desecrate  the  key 
of  such  an  enclosure,  as  I  would,  by  mixing 
it  with  drawer-keys  and 

My  first  conclusion  was,  that  I  should  keep 
it  in  my  purse.  Then  I  resolved  that  I  would 
tie  it  in  my  Bible.  How  it  would  unlock  for 
me  the  promises  of  God’s  Word,  open  many 

(19) 


keys  of  trunks  ? 


20 


AGNES. 


meanings  of  passages  which  I  never  thought  . 
of,  and  be  a  seal  to  all  the  truths  which  would 
meet  my  eye,  especially  those  relating  to  the 
transitoriness  of  earthly  good,  and  to  all  which 
is  said  of  heaven.  And  yet  I  wras  afraid  ol 
seeing  it  too  often. 

The  little  crib  had  been  carried  away  to  the 
store-chamber,  with  the  trunks,  old  andirons, 
carpets,  and  supernumerary  things.  To  tie  the 
little  key  to  the  little  crib,  joining  her  first 
and  last  resting-places  together,  was  another 
project  which  was  soon  abandoned. 

I  will  store  it  up  with  her  playthings,  I 
said  to  myself;  and  went  to  the  drawer  of  the 
old  “  secretary,”  in  the  upper  chamber,  and 
looked  upon  them. 

I  did  wrong  to  trust  myself  there.  My 
wife,  with  the  child  in  her  lap,  was  riding  with 
me  in  the  time  of  apple  blossoms,  through 
some  of  the  neighboring  towns;  and,  stop¬ 
ping  a  peddler  under  a  great  apple  tree,  and 
seeing  the  rattle,  she  took  it,  for  future  use. 
flow  the  blossom-leaves  fell  into  the  chaise, 


AGNES. 


21 


and  on  our  laps,  while  a  little  hand  was  made  to 
open,  and  was  held  out  to  catch  some  of  them. 
0,  that  incense-breathing  May  day !  that 
sweet  communion,  that  joint  love  for  the  little 
treasure  with  us,  which  made  us  the  happiest 
of  parents !  And  now  I  had  come  to  lay  the 
little  key  by  the  side  of  that  toy.  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  says,  “  Fortune  lays  the  plot  of  our 
adversities  in  the  foundation  of  our  felicities.” 
How  did  those  playthings  seem  to  look  up  in 
my  face  and  mock  me !  The  strings  of  red 
coral,  to  loop  the  arms  of  dresses,  were  there 
in  the  same  white  satin  paper-box  in  which  I 
brought  them  from  the  jeweller’s.  I  was  duly 
notified,  and  was  present  when  they  were  tried 
on.  A  tin  horse  on  rockers,  red  and  white, 
lay  prostrate  on  his  side.  Two  india-rubber 
rings,  with  prints  of  small  teeth  in  them,  were 
there.  What  searchings  for  those  teeth  there 
used  to  be,  before  they  came  up  like  lambs 
from  the  washing.  A  box  with  a  puff-ball  and 
powder  was  there  put  away ;  a  silver  whistle, 
with  small  bells  at  the  end ;  a  Turkish-looking 


22 


AGNES. 


head  and  body  on  a  stick,  with  spangles  on 
pendant  strips  of  cashmere ;  a  little  comb  and 
very  soft  brush,  all  lay  together,  as  though 
discrimination  had  dreaded  to  exercise  itself 
there.  And  so,  in  reckless  negligence,  incon¬ 
gruous  things,  bound  together,  however,  by 
one  dread  tie,  lay  useless  and  neglected.  Here 
seemed  the  place  for  the  little  key,  except 
that  it  involved  the  idea  of  abandoning  it. 
Had  its  use  come  to  an  end?  shall  it  be 
doomed  to  oblivion?  shall  I  put  it  where  I 
shall  not  dare  to  look  at  it,  through  fear  of 
meeting  other  things  which  will  combine  their 
power  to  torment  me  ?  I  can  look  at  it  alone. 
But  I  could  neither  consent  to  leave  it  where 
I  would  not  be  willing  to  go,  or  where,  if  I 
did  go,  I  should  suffer  at  the  sight  of  so  many 
other  little  memorials.  So  I  brought  it  away, 
as  much  at  a  loss  as  ever  how  to  dispose  of  it. 
By  this  time  it  became  necessary  for  me  to 
take  advice  on  the  subject ;  and  accordingly  I 
went  into  my  wife’s  room,  and  found  her  sit¬ 
ting  before  her  cheerful,  blazing  fire  ;  the 


AGNES. 


23 


room  darkened  a  little,  and  her  small  Bible 
lying  in  her  lap,  which  she  had  evidently  been 
reading  when  I  tapped  at  her  door. 

What  a  hush  there  was  in  that  chamber  of 
sorrow!  Things  seemed  to  be  holding  their 
peace ;  they  looked  as  though  they  had  setr 
tied  themselves  into  a  posture  for  deep 
thought.  The  muslin  window-curtains  never 
hung  so  straight  and  proper  before.  The 
chairs  each  had  a  vacated  look,  while  the 
cannel  coal  made  its  sizzling  noises  more 
vivaciously  than  ever,  and,  as  I  fancied,  with 
the  feelings  of  a  boy  whistling  in  the  dark. 

Dear  wife!  she  was  pale,  and  had  been 
weeping.  May  I  not  as  well  disclose  the 
dread  secret  here,  as  elsewhere,  that  now  she 
sleeps  by  the  side  of  Agnes  ?  I  will  not  en¬ 
large.  I  sat  by  her  side,  and  we  both  looked 
into  the  fire. 

“  You  did  not  take  cold,  yesterday,”  said  I. 

cc  No,”  said  she ;  66  it  was  thoughtful  in  you 
to  fix  that  board  for  me  to  stand  on  while  thev 
were  filling  the — ” 


24 


AGNES. 


There  was  a  pause,  and  I  said,  "  Let  us  try 
and  not  think  of  yesterday ;  ”  —  at  the  same 
time  knowing  how  foolish  it  was  to  say  this, 
especially  as  I  myself  thought  of  nothing  else ; 
but  I  had  to  say  something. 

a  Will  you  tell  me,”  said  I,  “  what  you  were 
saying,  yesterday,  when  you  put  your  face 
down  to  the  dear  little  face  at  the  grave,  and 
held  it  there  ?  ” 

“  0, 1  recollected,”  said  she,  "  how  I  gave 
that  child  to  God  before  she  was  born.  One 
day  I  read  that  passage  in  the  Psalms  where 
David  is  dwelling  with  so  much  satisfaction  on 
God’s  perfect  knowledge  of  him,  and  ‘  possess¬ 
ing’  him  before  he  was  bom.” 

I  sat  and  thought  of  those  words,  which  we 
seldom  repeat  to  one  another ;  or,  if  we  read 
them  in  company,  the  voice  feels  a  subduing 
influence  from  them.  Yet,  to  one  in  trouble, 
nothing  gives  a  more  impressive  sense  of 
God’s  perfect  knowledge  of  him,  and  property 
in  him,  than  to  read,  "Thine  eye  did  see  my 
substance,  yet  being  unperfect;  and  in  thy 


AGNES. 


25 


book  all  my  members  were  written,  which  in 
continuance  were  fashioned,  when,  as  yet, 
there  was  none  of  them.  How  precious,  also, 
are  tliy  thoughts  unto  me,  0  God !  how 
great  is  the  sum  of  them  !  If  I  should  count 
them,  they  are  more  in  number  than  the 
sand :  when  I  awake,  I  am  still  with  thee.” 

She  broke  my  reverie  by  saying:  “At  the 
time  you  refer  to,  yesterday,  I  was  going  over 
my  feelings  about  Agnes,  from  the  very  first 
moment,  and  all  along;  and  I  thought  how  en¬ 
tirely  I  gave  her  up  to  God,  when  I  knew  that 
I  was  to  be  a  mother,  and  when  she  was  given 
to  us.  When  I  took  my  last  look,  and  felt 
her  little  cheek  for  the  last  time,  I  did  again, 
what  I  had  done  so  many  times  before,  —  I 
gave  her  up  to  God,  to  be  disposed  of  for  his 
glory.” 

“And  now,”  said  I,  “He  has  taken  us  at  our 
word.” 

“  If  we  were  sincere  in  all  that  we  did,”  she 
replied,  “  we  have  nothing  to  regret.  Though 
her  child  lay  dead,  the  Shunamite  woman 


3 


26 


AGNES. 


said, 6  It  is  well/  I  am  trying  to  say  this,  and 
you  must  help  me/’ 

“  I  came  in,”  said  I,  “  to  ask  what  we  should 
do  with  that  little  key  which  I  brought  away 
with  me,  yesterday.” 

“  0,  did  you  bring  it  away  ?  I  wondered 
whether  you  did.  I  almost  hoped  that  you 
gave  it  to  the  undertaker.” 

“  What  could  he  have  done  with  it  ?  ”  said  I. 

“  It  could  never  be  of  any  use,  of  course, 
and  why  should  you  keep  it  ?  I  am  afraid  it 
will  only  harrow  up  your  feelings.” 

“  Perhaps,  then,”  I  replied,  “  I  will  take  it  to 
him,  and  let  him  mix  it  with  other  keys  of  the 
same  kind,  or  use  it  as  a  spare  key  when  one 
is  lost.” 

“  0  no,”  she  said,  hesitatingly,  “  I  would  not 
do  that.” 

“  But  where,”  said  I,  “  shall  we  keep  it  ?”  I 
then  told  her  of  my  several  projects,  and  how 
it  had  made  me  suffer  already,  and  still  how  I 
clung  to  the  little  treasure. 

She  had  the  greatest  skill  in  managing  my 


AGNES. 


27 


feelings,  at  all  times,  without  any  show  of 
power  over  me.  I  worshipped  her  almost  as 
a  superior  being,  leading,  guiding  me  in  times 
of  great  excitement,  and  always  bringing  me 
out  with  self-respect,  and  with  augmented 
reverence  for  her. 

“Before  you  discuss  the  little  key,”  she 
said,  “I  want  you  to  read  to  me  that  long 
letter  which  father  wrote  soon  after  Agnes 
was  born.  I  always  wondered  why  father 
never  tried  his  hand  at  writing  tales.  That 
story  is  told  in  such  a  way  that  it  affects  me 
exceedingly.  It  will  divert  my  mind  to  hear 
you  read  it,  and,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  on  a 
subject  which  will  suit  my  feelings.” 

I  went  to  my  desk  for  the  manuscript,  ask¬ 
ing  myself  whether  it  was  really  for  her  sake 
or  my  own,  that  she  wished  me  to  read  it  to 
her ;  and,  though  I  suspected  that  it  was  for 
my  sake,  yet,  the  ingenious  way  in  which  it 
was  brought  about,  pleased  me,  and  I  gladly 
gave  myself  up  to  the  innocent  stratagem — if, 
indeed,  it  were  such.  As  I  took  the  manu- 


28 


AGNES. 


script  from  the  file  of  papers  which  were  with 
it,  I  slipped  the  little  key  under  the  large 
india-rubber  band  which  held  them  together, 
glad  of  some  temporary  hiding-place  for  it. 

The  dinner-bell  rang  on  my  way  back  to 
her  room.  "Is  it  possible?”  we  both  ex¬ 
claimed  ;  "  where  has  the  morning  gone  ?  ”  1 

thought  it  was  about  noon.  It  was  two 
o’clock. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Entering  the  dining-room  together,  we  found 
our  chairs  set  for  us  at  the  table,  as  usual,  and 
between  them  a  high  chair.  Jane  had  fol¬ 
lowed  her  habit  of  placing  the  little  chair  at 
table.  We  both  uttered  something  like  a 
groan,  and  sat  down;  but  it  was  some  time 
before  I  could  speak  audibly  enough  to  ask  a 
blessing.  She  was  regularly  brought  in  with 
the  dessert,  tied  into  her  "high  chair,  and  then 
began  the  chief  pleasure  of  our  meal.  Her 
little  body  was  kept  in  exultant  action ;  the 
table  was  thumped  and  beaten ;  and,  as  the 
things  rattled,  she  felt  encouraged  to  pound 
the  more.  The  oranges  excited  her  desire; 
and,  reaching  and  stretching  after  them  with 
a  straining  noise  in  her  throat,  her  face  would 
grow  red,  till  her  determination  was  soothed 
by  her  effort  to  say  “  please,”  or  something 

3*  (29) 


30 


AGNES. 


which  was  accepted  as  an  equivalent,  when 
her  efforts  to  grasp  and  hold  the  orange,  which 
was  rolled  toward  her,  proving,  literally,  fruit¬ 
less,  she  made  us  laugh  at  her,  she  striving  to 

t 

laugh  as  loud  as  we. 

The  chair  kept  its  place  during  the  meal, 
and  tears  were  our  meat,  till  my  wife  essayed 
to  be  my  comforter,  and  said  : 

“  We  are  not  the  only  parents  who  have 
gone  through  such  trials.” 

“  How  little  we  have,  after  all,”  said  I,  “  to 
weep  over,  compared  with  many.  There  are 
trials  with  living  children  which  are  worse 
than  losing  an  infant.  But  do  you  not  think 
that  the  death  of  a  dear  little  child  is  a  very 
peculiar  sorrow  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
seen  people  in  more  anguish  under  the  loss 
of  little  children  than  in  any  other  affliction.” 

“  0,”  said  she,  “  there  is  an  exquisite  ten¬ 
derness  in  your  love  for  a  little  child  which 
makes  the  affliction  peculiar.  After  all,  it  is 
my  intense  love  for  Agnes  which  distresses 
me.” 


AGNES. 


31 


“It  is  so  with  me ;  but  1  suppose/’  said  I, 
“  that  a  mother  has  feelings  toward  the  child 
when  it  is  gone,  which,  in  some  respects,  are 
different  from  those  which  fathers  have;  and 
yet,  sometimes,  I  think  that  I  am  suffering 
more  than  you,  or  that  you  have  more  control 
over  your  feelings  than  I.” 

“We  must  help  each  other,”  said  she;  “hut 
a  daughter  is  a  great  comfort  to  a  mother,  as 
she  grows  up,  and  is  company  for  her  at 
home.  I  hardly  know  what  to  do  with  my¬ 
self  ;  it  seems  as  though  I  had  nothing  to  do  ; 
but  that  is  not  right ;  I  mean  to  feel  differ¬ 
ently  ;  but  I  suppose  we  must  expect  to  suffei 
for  a  time.” 

“  There  is  ‘  a  time  to  embrace,  and  a  time 
to  refrain  from  embracing/  the  wise  man  telk 
us.  But,”  said  I,  “  let  us  resolve  on  this,  that 
we  will  not  let  sorrow  make  us  selfish.  Some 
people  are  wholly  absorbed  for  a  long 
time  in  their  sorrow,  and  become  unfit  for 
everything.  Let  us  try  and  make  our  hearts 
expand,  instead  of  curling  their  affections  in* 


32 


AGNES. 


wardly,  and  shutting  themselves  up  closer 
from  others” 

"It  seems  to  me”  she  said,  "as  though  I 
should  greatly  love  every  mother  now,  and 
her  child,  and  do  all  in  my  power  to  comfort 
those  who  lose  children.  I  am  so  glad  that  I 
do  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  murmur  against 
God.  Some  people  seem  to  me  to  retain  an 
unforgiving  spirit  against  God,  when  He  takes 
a  child  from  them  ” 

I  told  her  of  a  mother,  who,  on  losing  an 
only  child,  said  to  me,  "  I  don’t  see  why  I 
should  be  singled  out,  and  be  robbed  of  my 
only  child,  when  my  sisters  each  have  large 
families,  and  have  never  lost  a  child.”  My 
blood  ran  cold  to  hear  the  woman  talk  so.  I 
could  not  help  thinking,  It  may  be  God  loves 
you  most,  and  therefore  afflicts  you.  0,  when 
we  part  with  our  perfect  confidence  in  God’s 
goodness  and  wisdom,  we  drift,  without  help 
or  hold,  we  know  not  where. 

In  the  course  of  our  talk,  1  related  two 
anecdotes.  A  former  President  of  the  Col- 


AGNES. 


33 


lege  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  when  he  was  pastor 
of  a  church,  called  on  a  ladv  who  had  lost  a 
child,  and  who  took  occasion  to  say  many 
things  which  manifested  a  quarrelsome  dis¬ 
position,  or  certainly  an  unsubmissive  state  of 
feeling.  She  “  never  could  be  reconciled ;  ” 
she  “  never  would  submit  to  it ;  ”  it  was  66  more 
than  human  nature  could  bear.”  Her  pastor 
silently  heard  her  through,  and,  after  a  short 
pause,  he  quietly  said,  66  Well,  madam,  what  do 
you  propose  to  do  about  it  ?  ” 

An  English  clergyman  was  praying  at  the 
bedside  of  a  sick  child,  and,  after  petitioning 
for  its  recovery,  in  an  earnest  manner,  he 
said,  66  But,  if  Thou  hast  otherwise  ordained, 
and  hast  purposed  to  take  away  this  child  ”  — 
“0  no,”  interrupted  the  mother,  66 never;  0, 
don’t  say  so,  I  cannot  have  it;”  —  and  so,  more 
than  once,  during  the  prayer,  she  protested 
audibly  against  the  sovereign  will  of  God. 
The  clergyman  was  much  pained  and  grieved 
at  this  want  of  submission  to  God’s  most  holy 

C'' 

will.  He  and  that  mother  both  lived  to  see 


34 


AGNES. 


that  child  perish  on  the  gallows,  by  the  hand 
of  the  public  executioner,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
live. 

u  But,”  said  1, 66  we  have  both  thought  and 
talked  enough  about  this  for  the  present ;  and 
so  we  will  postpone  our  reading,  and  I  will 
take  you  to  ride,  this  beautiful  afternoon.” 


CHAPTER  IV 


Before  bringing  the  horse  to  the  door,  1 
walked  to  the  Post-office.  On  my  way,  I  was 
struck  with  the  manner  of  many  of  my 
friends  and  acquaintances.  One  thing  affected 
me.  Some,  who  hardly  ever  had  felt  suffi¬ 
ciently  acquainted  to  bow  as  we  passed, 
saluted  me  as  I  went  by.  They  knew  of  my 
affliction ;  they  noticed  the  weed  on  my  hat ; 
they  saw  my  sorrow,  probably,  in  my  looks. 
It  made  me  love  my  fellow-men  more  than 
ever ;  it  made  me  resolve  to  be  kind  to  peo¬ 
ple  in  trouble.  Some  of  my  acquaintances 
who  were  formerly  free  to  speak,  went  by 
with  most  respectful  and  solemn  looks,  unwil¬ 
ling  to  intrude  upon  my  grief ;  while  here  and 
there  a  hand  would  grasp  mine,  and,  with  eyes 
full  of  tears,  one  and  another  would  say,  “  0, 
my  dear  sir,  I  know  all  that  you  have  gone 


(35) 


3G 


A  Q  N  E  S  . 


through,  for  I  have  felt  the  same  .”  That  walk 
did  much  to  change  the  complexion  of  my 
feelings;  but  alas!  every  now  and  then  I 
thought  of  that  little  key,  and  of  my  morn¬ 
ing’s  employment,  and  I  felt  as  we  do  when 
the  sea  swells  under  our  feet. 

As  soon  as  we  started  on  our  drive,  we  met 
young  children  in  the  arms  of  nursery-maids, 
or  in  wicker  carriages.  We  watched  them  as 
they  passed,  as  though  they  were  strange  or 
most  interesting  sights.  Once  I  turned  the 
horse  and  rode  back,  to  give  my  wife  a  view 
of  a  little  face  over  a  nurse’s  shoulder.  “Dear 
little  thing,”  said  she,  “just  the  age  of  Agnes; 
how  happy  her  mother  must  be.” 

“Are  you  not  glad  for  her  mother?”  said  I. 

“  Surely  I  am,  and  love  her  dearly,  without 
knowing  her,”  she  replied.  “  And  one  thing  I 
can  hardly  account  for— that,  seeing  these 
little  things  makes  me  love  God  more  than 
ever.” 

“  Now  that  is  a  good  sign,”  said  I ;  “for  when 
we  love  God,  I  do  believe  that  afflictions  make 


AGNES. 


37 


us  love  him  more.  We  cannot  be  stationary 
in  our  feelings  toward  him  in  times  of  great 
sorrow ;  we  either  go  back  from  him,  and  are 
cold  toward  him,  which  is  a  dreadful  sign ;  . 
or  we  cling  to  him,  and  say, 6  Whom  have  I 
in  heaven  but  thee  ?  ’  ” 

“  You  praise  me  sometimes,”  said  she,  “when 
I  wish  that  you  would  examine  me  and  tell  me 
my  faults.” 

“  I  examined  you  then,”  said  I,  “  and  felt 
bound  to  give  the  result.  We  must  not  deny 
the  work  of  God’s  grace  in  us ;  that  grieves 
him.  We  must  discriminate  in  our  confes¬ 
sions,  and  be  thankful  for  any  right  feeling, 
and  cherish  it.” 

“  What  were  those  lines,”  said  she,  “  which 
Dr.  D.  quoted,  in  his  sermon  on  New  Year’s 
day,  about  submission  to  God  ?  ” 

“  I  have  them  in  my  porte-inonnaie ;  he 
copied  them  for  me,  I  was  so  much  struck  with 
them.  He  said  he  quoted  them  from  memory, 
but  thought  they  were  nearly  right.  Please 


4 


38 


AGNES. 


take  the  reins  a  moment,  and  I  will  read 
them. 

“  ‘  With  patience,  then,  the  course  of  duty  run ; 

God  never  does,  nor  suffers  to  be  done, 

But  that  which  you  would  do,  if  you  could  see 
The  end  of  all  events,  as  well  as  He.’  ” 

66  0,”  said  she,  giving  back  the  reins,  “  I  feel 
so  safe  when  you  are  driving ;  and  that  would 
do,  by  the  way,  to  moralize  upon.  But  the 
thoughts  in  those  lines  have  done  more  to  sus¬ 
tain  me,  or,  at  least,  to  keep  my  mind  quiet, 
than  any  uninspired  words.” 

“No  doubt  it  is  literally  true,”  said  I,  “  that, 
if  we  could  have  seen  all  which  God  saw,  we 
should  have  said,  { How  desirable  it  is  that 
Agnes  should  die  now.’  We  never  would 
have  taken  the  responsibility  of  judging,  how¬ 
ever  ;  and  therefore  it  is  well  that  there  is  One 
who  can,  and  who  is  willing  to  do  so,  and  does 
not  spare  for  our  crying.” 

“  What  are  some  of  the  reasons,”  said  she, 
w  which  you  can  imagine  why  it  was  best  ?  ” 

“  0,  she  might  have  had  the  seeds  of  disease 


AGNES. 


39 


in  her,  which  would  have  made  her  life  a  bur¬ 
den/’  I  replied. 

“  Or  she  might  have  proved  a  great  trial  to 
us  in  some  way/’  she  added. 

a  Perhaps/’  said  I,  “  God  wishes  to  prepare 
us  to  do  great  good  in  the  world,  and  this  is 
the  preparative.  If  God  seeks  to  fill  us  with 
himself,  if  he  desires  our  love,  what  an  honor 
it  is,  and  what  a  privilege  it  is,  to  receive  him, 
even  by  displacing  the  dearest  object.” 

“  Why,  there  comes  a  hearse,”  said  she ;  and 
true,  we  were  about  to  meet  a  funeral. 

The  hearse  proved  to  be  some  way  in  ad¬ 
vance  of  the  carriages,  and  was  empty ;  the 
burial  had  taken  place ;  the  friends  were  re¬ 
turning. 

I  brought  my  horse  to  a  walk ;  and,  as  the 
first  carriage  drove  by,  a  lady  in  the  deepest 
mourning  had  her  face  in  her  handkerchief, 
and  was  bowed  half  way  down,  as  in  violent 
weeping,  while  the  gentleman  at  her  side,  his 
hat  off,  leaned  his  head  back,  his  face  in  like 
manner  covered,  and  he  abandoned  to  grief. 


40 


AGNES. 


Two  sweet  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  were  on 
the  front  seat,  the  curtains  rolled  up,  watching 
the  wet  gravel  which  the  wheels  threw  off. 
We  hardly  noticed  the  other  carriages. 

“ There,”  said  I,  “is  grief,  which  perhaps 
they  would  be  willing  to  exchange  for  ours.” 

“I  hope,”  said  she,  “that  they  have  some 
of  the  consolations  which  we  possess.  What 
do  people  in  such  troubles  as  these  do  without 
God  ?  ” 

“  0,  they  try  and  make  the  best  of  it,”  said 
I;  “they  go  into  company,  get  relief  in  busi¬ 
ness  or  pleasures,  and  strive  to  outlive  it ;  or 
they  become  melancholy  and  useless.  But 
how  much  better  it  is  to  say,  ‘Show  me 
wherefore  thou  contendest  with  me  and  be 
more  anxious  to  know  what  God  intends 
and  expects,  than  why  the  affliction  hap¬ 
pened” 

“  The  greatest  trial  I  have  had,”  said  she, 
“in  this  affliction,  is,  to  think  that  God  is  angry 
with  me  for  my  sins,  and  is  dealing  with  me 
in  wrath  ” 


AGNES. 


41 


“  Do  vou  feel  so  ?  ”  said  I,  “  for  I  am  almost 
glad  if  you  do,  because  I  can  tell  you  some¬ 
thing  which  greatly  helped  me.  I  told  Dr. 
D.,  when  he  called,  the  day  that  Agnes  died, 
that  my  greatest  trouble  was,  that  God  was 
angry  with  me  for  some  particular  sin,  or  for 
all  my  sins.” 

“  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  ”  said  she. 

66  He  said  that  he  once  preached  a  sermon 
on  that  very  point.  c  Behavior  in  trouble’ 
was  the  subject,  and  he  took  this  view  of  it : 
‘ Admit  the  worst;  you  have  been  a  great  sin¬ 
ner,  in  some  particular ;  now  God  is  dealing 
with  you  for  it. 

“  ‘  What  will  you  do  ?  Flee  from  him  ?  be 
shy  of  him?  feel  angry  and  stubborn?  No, 
but  thank  him  that  he  is  willing  to  take  you  in 
hand.  Brambles/  he  said,  ‘  do  not  get  pruned ; 
vines  are  cut,  and  thinned  out.’  Then  he  took 
your  little  Bible,  which  lay  near,  and  read 
three  beautiful  passages,  and  turned  down  the 
leaves  for  me. 

“  One  was  this :  ‘  Surely  it  is  meet  to  be  said 

4* 


42 


AGNES. 


unto  God,  I  have  borne  chastisement,  I  will 
not  offend  any  more.’ 

“  This,  he  said,  is  Christian  meekness ;  hum¬ 
bling  one’s  self  under  the  mighty  hand  of 
God ;  and  it  is  our  first  duty.” 

“I  saw  those  leaves  turned  down,”  said  she, 
66  but  what  were  the  other  passages  ?  ” 

“  The  next,  he  said,  tells  us  how  God  feels 
towards  us  when  He  afflicts  us,  and  we  humble 
ourselves:  (I  have  surely  heard  Ephraim  be 
moaning  himself  thus:  Thou  hast  chastised 
me,  and  I  was  chastised,  as  a  bullock  unaccus- 

t 

tomed  to  the  yoke  ;  turn  thou  me,  and  I  shall 
be  turned ;  for  thou  art  the  Lord  my  God.’ 

“  Then  God  speaks :  ‘  Is  Ephraim  my  dear 
son  ?  is  he  a  pleasant  child  ?  for,  since  I  spake 
against  him,  I  do  earnestly  remember  him 
still ;  therefore  my  bowels  are  troubled  for 
him ;  I  will  surely  have  mercy  upon  him,  saith 
the  Lord.’  ” 

Turning  to  witness  her  smile  of  gratification 
at  such  words,  I  saw  her  face  with  tear  aftei 
tear  coursing  down  upon  it. 


AGNES. 


43 


But  how  strangely  mixed  up  are  pathos 
and  innocent  mirth,  in  all  that  is  natural,  and 
in  ways,  too,  which  art  cannot  imitate  with¬ 
out  seeming  unnatural.  The  horse,  failing  to 
discriminate  between  some  sound  which  I 
made  with  my  lips,  and  a  chirrup,  started  off 
at  a  good  round  trot.  This  left  a  little  less 
shading  to  our  thoughts. 

“  You  would  not  wish  to  stop  at  the  cem¬ 
etery/’  I  said,  “  on  our  way  home.” 

“  0  no,  not  to-day,”  she  replied ;  66  it  would 
only  excite  needless  grief.  Some  pleasant 
morning  we  will  ride  out  there.” 

“Why  do  you  say  the  morning,”  I  asked, 
(i  rather  than  the  afternoon  ?  ” 

“  I  like  to  take  a  bright  sunny  morning  to 
visit  a  new  grave,”  she  said.  “  It  helps  me  bear 
it  better.  The  shadows  and  the  approach  of 
evening  make  me  gloomy,  and  we  ought  not 
to  expose  ourselves  to  temptations  in  our 
trials.  God  helps  those  that  help  themselves. 
When  months  are  passed,  I  like  the  after¬ 
noon.” 


44 


AGNES. 


“  How  many  good  thoughts  you  give  me,” 
said  I,  “  besides  cheering  my  spirits.” 

66 1  am  glad  if  I  do,”  said  she,  “  but  please  go 
slower.”  The  horse  seemed  to  be  in  sympathy 
again  with  our  pleasurable  feelings,  quicken¬ 
ing  his  pace,  and  soon  bringing  us  safely  to 
our  door. 


CHAPTER  V. 


As  we  sat  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  I 
remarked  to  my  wife  that  I  felt  less  pain  with 
regard  to  that  little  key.  I  had  been  made  to 
feel,  as  never  before,  that  God’s  claim  and  his 
right  to  the  child  take  precedence  of  ours;  that 
the  consecration  of  our  children  to  him  is 
eminently  a  duty  as  well  as  a  privilege  ;  and 
that  our  principles  and  feelings,  in  habitually 
performing  the  duty,  ought  to  have  a  con¬ 
trolling  influence  with  us,  if  God  sees  fit  to 
take  our  children  away.  One  pleasant  effect 
of  these  views  was  to  make  me  feel  that  the 
death  of  our  child  was  not  in  the  main  a  loss, 
a  total  loss,  as  I  had  regarded  it ;  but  that, 
being  apart  of  God’s  great  purposes,  her  death 
would  appear,  at  some  time  when  it  would  be 
as  desirable  to  be  happy  as  now,  the  means 
of  some  great  good. 


(45) 


46 


AGNES. 


So,  instead  of  contriving  where  to  place  and 
keep  the  key  of  the  little  coffin,  I  found  my¬ 
self  employed  in  asking  what  good  uses  shall 
I  derive  from  it ;  and  this  led  to  the  following 
conversation,  in  one  of  our  afternoon  drives: 

“You  must  give  me  that  little  key,”  said  my 
wife,  in  one  of  these  excursions. 

“  Can  you  keep  it  better  than  I,  or  with 
less  risk  of  its  disturbing  your  feelings?”  I 
inquired. 

“You  must  gratify  me  in  this  thing,”  said 
she,  “  without  much  inquiry.  I  will  promise 
to  keep  it  safely,  and  make  it  as  useful  as  I 
can.” 

“Well,”  said  I,  “let  us  go  to  the  little  grave 
together,  some  day,  and  take  the  key  with  us. 
I  should  like  to  see  how  wre  shall  feel  there,  in 
view  of  our  affliction,  compared  with  our  feel¬ 
ings  at  the  burial.” 

A  few  months  had  elapsed  since  that  event, 
the  wreather  had  become  fine,  and  so  we  agreed 
one  evening  that  we  would  spend  the  next 
morning  at  the  cemetery. 


AGNES. 


47 


What  strange  coincidences  with  the  events 
of  the  dell,  there  sometimes  are  in  our  casual 
selection  of  passages  of  Scripture  in  our  morn¬ 
ing  devotions !  That  morning,  I  opened  my 
Bible  with  my  thoughts  full  of  our  expected 
visit,  and,  for  a  moment  or  two,  hardly  looked 
upon  the  page  ;  but,  on  beginning  to  read,  the 
first  words  which  met  my  eyes  were  these : 
“  And  said,  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ?  They 
say  unto  him,  Lord,  come  and  see.” 

It  is  as  wrong  to  shape  our  conduct  by  pas¬ 
sages  of  Scripture  casually  met  with,  as  it  is 
to  follow  dreams,  or  to  trust  in  coincidences 
of  any  kind.  Sad  mistakes  are  often  made  by 
interpreting  such  coincidences  in  favor  of  oui 
wishes.  At  the  same  time,  we  may  receive 
wholesome  instruction  even  from  dreams,  and 
coincidences  ought  to  make  us  pause  and  re¬ 
flect,  so  giving  to  sound  judgment  and  dis¬ 
cretion  better  opportunities  for  reflection.  The 
occurrence  of  this  passage,  that  morning,  in¬ 
volving  no  question  of  duty,  certainly  was 


48 


AGNES. 


tlie  occasion  of  no  harm,  if  it  made  me  reflect 
how  the  Holy  Spirit,  who  indited  the  Bible, 
is  pleased  at  times  to  be  with  us  when  we 
read  it,  and  apply  it  to  our  circumstances.  1 1 
is  wrong  to  look  upon  passages  of  Scripture  as 
omens,  but  we  may  derive  comfort  and  in¬ 
struction  from  them  at  pleasure.  This  pas¬ 
sage  made  me  think  that  Jesus  feels  an 
interest  in  the  graves  of  our  children  and 
friends;  that  he  looks  down  and  watches  all 
our  dust,  if  we  sleep  in  Jesus  ;  and  therefore  I 
felt  that  he  would  accompany  us  to  the  grave 
of  our  child. 

As  my  wife  was  about  to  take  her  seat  in 
the  carriage,  and  was  putting  on  her  gloves  in 
the  parlor,  I  asked  : 

“  What  passage  of  Scripture  do  you  think 
1  have  just  seen  which  is  applicable  to  you  ?  ” 

“  Please  tell  ine,”  said  she,  without  lifting 
her  eyes. 

“ 6  She  goeth  unto  the  grave  to  weep  there.’  ” 

After  a  moment’s  pause,  she  replied :  “  Mary 
little  knew  what  a  scene  she  was  going  to 


AGNES. 


49 


witness  there.  Perhaps  her  Friend  will  go 
with  us.” 

"I  have  invited  Him,”  said  I.  "  ‘Lord,  come 
and  see.”’ 

"  And  so,”  said  I,  as  we  drove  along,  "  we  are 
going  to  the  grave  in  company  with  the 
Resurrection  and  the  Life.  What  a  privilege 
to  have  a  grave,  if  it  secures  for  us  the  special 
presence  of  Jesus.” 

"  I  was  struck  with  the  remark,  in  the  ser¬ 
mon  last  Sabbath,”  said  she,  "  that,  of  the  two 
who  went  to  heaven  without  dying,  God’s  own 
Son  was  not  one  of  them.” 

"But  here  we  are,”  said  I,  "at  the  stopping- 
place  nearest  to  the  path  ” 

We  walked  along  over  ground  where  no 
foot  seemed  lately  to  have  trodden  on  the  nu¬ 
merous  ant-hills  where  the  busy  little  em¬ 
mets  wrere  at  work.  We  spoke  of  superior 
beings  compassionating  us,  as  we  did  these  lit> 
tie  creatures.  We  stepped  over  and  among 
them  as  well  as  we  could ;  for  we  had  feelings 

of  tenderness  toward  everything.  A  robin 
5 


50 


AGNES. 


ran  across  our  path,  with  his  head  up,  and  a 
worm  dangling  from  his  bill.  The  long 
branches  of  the  larch  trees  bowed  quietly  un¬ 
der  the  pressure  of  a  pleasant  morning  wind. 
The  stones,  with  their  inscriptions,  showing 
their  manifold  histories  of  sorrow,  seemed  to 
speak  to  us  like  people  on  a  wreck  saying  to 
some  more  impassioned  sufferer,  Think,  too,  of 
us  !  Our  hearts  beat  hard,  we  had  to  summon 
new  strength,  as  we  caught  the  first  sight 
of  the  dear  little  mound.  We  leaned  on  the 
fence,  and  wept,  apart. 

a  But,”  said  I,  holding  up  the  steps  of  my 
companion,  as  we  came  nearer,  “  I  cannot 
think  of  her  as  here.  Have  you  not  put 
away  her  little  cloak,  and  other  things  of 
hers,  in  the  camphor  trunk  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  said  she ;  “  why  do  you  ask  ?  ” 

“  Because,”  said  I, 

“  ‘  Graves  are  but  beds  where  flesh  till  morning  sleeps, 

Or  chests,  where  God  awhile  our  garments  keeps.’ 

a  There  will  be  a  time  when  this  will 
cease  to  be  an  affliction.  Wo  shall  see  at  last 


AGNES. 


51 


that  it  was  one  of  those  *  all  things  ’  which 
work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love 
God.” 

“  I  try  hard,”  she  said,  "  to  forget  myself 
and  my  affliction,  and  to  consider  how  I  may 
best  please  God,  and  honor  him  in  my  trial. 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  comforted,  but  to  be  use¬ 
ful  ;  to  be  made  better.” 

"  That  is  the  truest  comfort  also,”  said  I. 

"  We  are  very  insignificant  things,”  said  she, 
"  and  our  happiness  or  suffering  ought  not  to 
absorb  our  thoughts ;  but,  how  shall  Christ  be 
magnified  in  us,  by  life  or  by  death?” 

"What  an  object,”  said  I,  "that  is  to  live 
for!  How  ennobling;  and  how  small  does 
selfish  sorrow  appear  !  ” 

"  W e  are  flesh  and  blood,”  said  she,  "  and 
must  weep  and  suffer  under  our  trials  ” 

"It  would  be  unnatural  if  we  did  not,”  I 
replied.  "  God  expects  us  to  cry  when  he 
binds  us.  I  went  to  see  your  friend,  L.,  you 
know,  after  her  husband  was  brought  home 
dead.  A  good  woman  came  to  meet  me  at 


52 


AGNES. 


the  door,  and  said :  ‘  0,  Mr.  M.,  you  know  what 
sorrow  is;  do  come  up  and  try  to  stop  L.’s 
crying ;  she  has  been  taking  on  so  for  six  or 
eight  hours.’  L.  heard  this,  as  we  entered  the 
room.  6 1  cannot  help  it,’  said  she.  6  0,  Mr. 
M.,  what  shall  I  do  ?  ’  ‘  Cry  as  much  as  you 

please,  dear  L.,’  said  I,  ‘  it  will  be  a  relief  to 
you.  Do  not  try  to  check  it.  I  am  glad  to 
see  that  you  can  cry.  David’s  Psalms  are, 
many  of  them,  nothing  hut  spells  of  crying. 
Jesus  groaned  in  spirit  twice  as  he  went  to 
the  grave  of  Lazarus.  I  am  sure  you  have 
enough  to  cry  about.’  ” 

“  What  effect  did  it  have  upon  her  ?  ”  asked 
my  wife. 

“  At  first,”  said  I,  “she  wept  as  when  a  cloud 
bursts.  I  sat  still  a  few  moments,  knowing  it 
was  only  the  reaction  from  her  long  effort  to 
control  her  feelings.  At  length  she  grew  calm ; 
and,  when  I  left  her,  she  said,  ‘  Well,  I  do  feel 
that  underneath  are  the  everlasting  arms.’  ” 

“  0,”  said  my  wife,  “  what  a  world  of  sor¬ 
row,  and  to  do  good  in,  this  is ;  and  I  feel  as 


AGNES. 


53 


though  I  wanted  to  go  home  and  find  out 
every  afflicted  heart  and  be  kind  to  it.  Did 
you  bring  the  little  key  with  you  ?  ” 

I  produced  it.  How  much  my  feelings 
had  been  mitigated  since  I  drew  it  from  my 
pocket  the  evening  after  the  funeral !  We 
looked  at  it  with  composure.  He  who  turneth 
the  shadow  of  death  into  the  morning,  and 
maketh  the  day  dark  with  night,  had  been 
gracious  to  me.  “ 1  look  upon  that  key,”  said 
Agnes, “  as  a  sort  of  ordinance,  a  symbol ;  it 
represents  a  world  of  thought  and  feeling  ” 

“  That  is  a  good  idea,”  said  I,  “  and  let  us 
improve  upon  it.  I  begin  to  think  that,  when 
I  see  this  little  key  hereafter,  it  will  be  with 
me  as  it  is  said  of  Hannah, i  Her  countenance 
was  no  more  sad/  I  mean  to  make  a  good 
use  of  the  little  key.  I  should  love  to  join 
with  you,  some  evening,  and  put  down  in  a 
little  book  our  thoughts  and  feelings  in  con¬ 
nection  with  it.  We  shall  read  it,  hereafter, 
with  great  satisfaction.” 

“You  will  forgive  me.”  said  T;  “for  not  having 


54 


AGNES. 


told  you  that  this  is  not  my  first  visit  here 
since  the  funeral.  I  have  been  here  several 
times,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  try  your  feelings 
by  alluding  to  it.  I  came  out  here  once  when 
there  were  two  feet  of  snow  in  this  lot.  This 
little  grave  was  hidden 

“  0,  how  beautiful  and  sad  that  must  have 
looked,”  she  said. 

"  It  was  the  first  time  that  I  came,  after  the 
funeral.  I  was  glad  not  to  see  the  little  grave. 
I  knew  it  was  there,  safe’  beneath  that  beauti¬ 
ful  mantle.” 

"What  passages  of  Scripture  did  it  make 
you  think  of?”  she  inquired ;  "  you  are  so  apt 
to  see  meanings  in  them  which  I  do  not.” 

I  said  to  her,  "  I  thought  of  this :  c  He  shall 
cover  thee  with  his  feathers,  and  under  his 
wings  shalt  thou  trust/  I  felt  that  the  snow 
was  a  great  white  wing  spread  over  Agnes. 
The  snow  was  wreathed  around  this  silver¬ 
leaved  maple,  like  a  calla  lily  around  its  pistil. 
How  white  and  pure  it  was : 

“  4 - the  fann’d  snow 

That ’s  bolted  by  the  northern  blast  thrice  o’er.’ 


AGNES. 


i 


55 


“I  could  not  help  weeping  as  I  looked  on 
those  exquisitely  beautiful  curves  of  the 
snow,  and  I  thought  that  the  God  who 
wrought  such  things  would  not,  could  not, 
deal  with  those  who  love  him  otherwise  than 
in  love  and  wisdom.” 

“  I  wish  that  I  had  seen  it,”  said  she. 

“  You  could  not  have  waded  here,”  I  replied. 
“  And  now  here  the  grass  is  green,  and  the  sods 
are  putting  out  fresh  spires  on  the  mound. 
These  changes  are  but c  the  varied  God.  The 
rolling  year  is  full  of  Thee/  Summer,  autumn, 
winter,  spring,  will  come  in  their  turn  and 
visit  this  little  grave.  God  has  a  treasure 
here,  which  he  is  keeping  for  a  great  purpose. 

“Last  week,  I  was  here  again.  This  one 
thought  absorbed  me :  The  will  of  God  is 
better  than  child,  or  any  other  possession. 
Had  it  been  referred  to  me  whether  Agnes 
should  be  restored  to  life,  I  would,  on  no  ac¬ 
count,  have  decided  the  question,  but  would 
have  referred  it  back  again.  I  feel  so  still. 

“  Let  me  read  you  some  lines  which  I  wrote 
here  last  week,  and  then  we  will  go : 


56 


AGNES. 


AT  MY  CHILD’S  GRAVE. 

Beneath  this  grassy  mound 
Sweet  Agnes  lies ; 

She  cannot  hear  a  sound,  — 

Closed  are  her  eyes. 

Her  little  form  is  mouldering  back  to  clay  ; 

With  small  and  great  she  waits  the  judgment  day, 

God’s  watchful  eye  beheld 
This  sparrow  fall; 

By  Him  an  infant’s  hairs 
Are  numbered  all. 

God  !  in  thy  dreadful  majesty,  how  mild  ! 

O  Christ !  the  Father,  'with  Thee,  loves  a  little  child. 

She,  on  her  wondrous  way, 

Looks  not  behind ; 

Light  sweetly  breaks  all  day 
Over  her  mind. 

At  the  last  trump  she  ’ll  come,  with  angel  size, 

Down  to  this  grave  to  watch  the  body  rise. 

What  shall  the  body  be  ?  — 

Now,  like  a  grain, 

It  dies,  to  bring  forth  fruit 
And  live  again. 

This  little  seed  shall  yield  a  shock  of  com  ; 

Out  from  this  grave  a  form  like  Christ’s  shall  greet  the  souks 

return. 


AGNES. 


57 


“  I  must  talk  with  you/'  she  said,  “  about  the 
doctrine  in  the  last  stanzas,  as  we  are  riding 
home” 

“Last  March,”  said  I,  “it  did  not  seem  possible 
that  I  could  ever  go  away  from  this  little  grave 
with  so  much  peace.  I  feel  that  we  have  left 
Agnes  in  heaven,  rather  than  in  the  grave  ” 
“Now  please  tell  me,”  said  she,  “what 
makes  you  think  that  children  do  not  remain 
children  in  heaven,  as  so  many  think  that  they 
do.” 

“  It  strikes  me,”  said  I,  “  as  a  very  earthly 
idea,  that  children  are  to  be  kept  forever  in 
infancy  and  childhood  in  heaven,  as  though 
we  should  need  their  childhood  there  to  make 
us  happy  as  it  does  here.  And  why  are  we 
to  suppose  that  the  mind  of  a  child  will  not 
expand  in  heaven,  as  well  as  here  ?  Besides, 
it  seems  like  doing  them  a  wrong,  to  keep 
them  in  a  childish  condition  forever.” 

“  0,  I  cannot  think  so,”  said  she.  “  To  be  a 
happy  child  in  heaven  forever,  I  think  must 
be  as  real  bliss  as  to  be  a  full-grown  mind 


58 


AGNES. 


How  children  in  heaven  must  be  loved :  How 
interesting  they  must  be  to  angels !  What 
exquisite  pleasure  a  child  has !  I  feel  less  and 
less  the  power  of  knowledge  to  make  us 
happy.  ‘He  that  increaseth  knowledge  in- 
creaseth  sorrow.’  Your  doctrine  may  be  true 
for  other  reasons,  but  not,  I  think,  because  it 
will  be  any  wrong  to  a  child  to  keep  it  a  child.” 

“I  suppose  you  feel,”  said  I,  “that  you 
would  as  soon  be  a  member  of  a  flower-gar¬ 
den  as  of  a  forest.” 

“  Certainly ;  how  much  more  pleasure  I  get 
from  a  calla  lily  than  from  a  buttonwood,”  said 
she,  laughingly.  “  But  that  is  hardly  fair,”  she 
continued.  “We  cannot  properly  compare 
flowers  and  trees,  and  give  the  preference  to 
one  over  the  other.  Each  has  its  place  and  use. 
Now  I  feel  that  children  are  to  heaven  what 
flowers  and  birds  are  to  nature,  here ;  and  I 
want  to  have  them  remain  so.” 

“That  is  woman’s  theology,”  said  I.  “You 
wish  to  find  dear  little  Agnes  a  sweet  little 
child,  twenty  or  forty  years  hence,  when  you 
enter  heaven.” 


AGNES. 


59 


“  T  love  to  think  so,”  said  she. 

“  It  is  a  hard  task/’  said  I,  “  to  argue  against 
a  mother,  with  so  much  on  her  side  that  is 
beautiful  and  touching,  and  especially  when  I 
know  so  little  about  it,  after  all.” 

“  Then,  perhaps,”  said  she,  “  you  had  better 
be  diffident,  and  not  say  much  till  you  know 
more.  I  think  you  will  have  the  mothers 
against  you.” 

“  Then  I  should  beat  a  retreat,  certainly,” 
said  I,  “  and  go  into  camp ;  for  I  should  hate 
to  fulfil  what  Milton  says  about  a  woman  rea¬ 
soning  with  men  : 

“  ‘  In  argument  with  men,  a  woman  ever 
Goes  by  the  worse,  whatever  be  her  cause.’  ” 

“  We  should  refute  that  in  this  case,”  said 
she,  “as  in  many  other  instances,  especially 
since  we  all  know  so  little  about  the  subject 
for  we  should  be  hard  pushed  on  either  side  to 
prove  what  we  suppose.  But  I  presume  that 
it  is  the  general  belief,  is  it  not,  that  the  soul 
develops  in  heaven,  as  on  earth  ?  ” 

“  Analogy  seems  to  favor  it,”  said  I,  “  cer- 


60 


AGNES. 


tainly;  but  some  people  seem  to  think  that 
we  are  to  be  re-constituted  into  families,  in 
heaven,  and  that  parents  will  gather  their 
children  about  them,  and  have  what  they 
call  happy  homes.  Therefore  they  like  the 
thought  of  infants  and  young  children  remain¬ 
ing  such. 

“  But,”  said  I,  u  a  father  and  mother,  whose 
children  grew  up  and  left  them,  would  have  a 
solitary  home,  unless  their  children  should  all 
return  •  but  1  certainly  should  not  consent  to 
your  leaving  me  to  live  with  your  father  and 
mother.  More  than  this,  would  you  rather 
have  Agnes  for  a  beautiful  little  plaything,  or 
see  her  developed  into  a  perfect  form,  and  all 
her  powers  and  faculties  in  full  bloom,  capable 
of  appreciating  everything  ?  Parents  are  wil¬ 
ling,  here,  to  send  their  children  away  from 
them  to  school,  as  a  duty  they  owe  their  chil¬ 
dren” 

“  That  is  because  they  will,  of  necessity, 
grow  up,  and  therefore  must  be  educated,” 
said  she. 


AGNES. 


61 


“  Bat  no  judicious  parent,  apart  from  this,” 
said  I, 66  would  prefer  to  keep  a  child  in  a 
juvenile  state,  for  the  parent’s  own  pleasure, 
rather  than  cultivate  and  inform  its  mind. 
Growth  is  probably  the  law  of  heaven,  as  of 
earth, — growth  without  decay.” 

“  But  what  a  loss  it  will  be,”  she  replied, 
“  when  all  the  children  from  earth  are  grown 
up  in  heaven.  I  dread  to  think,  for  instance, 
that  the  time  will  come  wdien  the  youngest 
person  whom  I  shall  see  from  earth,  will  be  a 
few  thousand  years  old.” 

“  c  It  doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be,’ 
said  I.  “  All  that  we  can  say  is,  ‘  Thou  hast 
created  all  things,  and  for  thy  pleasure  they 
are  and  were  created.’  In  God’s  own  way  we 
shall  each  fulfil  some  part  in  his  great  empire 
and  plan.” 

“  Well,”  said  she,  “we  will  take  the  little  key, 
and  sit  down  and  contrive  what  to  do  with  it, 
and  how  it  shall  do  us  good,  and  do  good  by 
as.” 

6 


« 


/ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

It  had  rained  very  hard  all  day,  a  few 
weeks  after  this,  when,  as  we  sat  at  tea,  Agnes 
said : 

“  No  one  will  come  in  this  evening,  and 
now  let  us  have  that  conversation  about  the 
key.” 

It  was  soon  brought  down  from  her  pri¬ 
vate  drawer,  in  a  tortoise-shell  card-case,  where 
she  had  kept  it  for  some  time.  I  had  writing 
materials  before  me,  and  a  memorandum  book, 
which  I  proceeded  to  dedicate  to  its  use,  by 
writing  these  words  on  the  first  page  :  “  The 
Key  of  a  Little  Coffin.” 

“Now,”  said  I,  “let  us  proceed  somewhat  after 

this  method :  I  will  name  some  use,  or  reflec- 

$ 

tion,  or  purpose,  suggested  by  the  little  thing ; 

and,  when  we  have  discussed  it,  I  will  write  it 

(62) 


AGNES. 


G3 


down  here.  Then  it  shall  be  your  turn  to 
propose  a  sentiment.” 

“  I  fear,”  said  she,  “  that  you  will  have  to 
furnish  most  of  the  thoughts.  But,  if  you 
will  begin,  I  will  do  my  best.  When  we 
read  it  over,  we  will  recollect  that  it  did  not 
sound  so  much  like  speeches  when  we  talked, 
as  I  fear  it  will  from  the  book.” 

Husband.  “  One  thing,  then,  which  I  love  to 
think  of  in  connection  with  the  little  key,  is 
this:  It  can  never  be  used  for  this  purpose 
again. 

“  I  feel  so  glad  that  this  is  not  a  sorrow 
which  is  in  anticipation.  We  have  passed 
through  the  cloud,  and  through  the  sea,  and 
the  waters  themselves  have  been  a  wall  to  us 
on  either  side,  the  affliction  itself  defending 
us  from  many  temptations,  and  constituting  a 
hiding-place  for  us.  I  have  been  instructed, 
and,  I  trust,  made  better ;  but  I  am  .so  glad 
that  I  am  not  to  pass  through  this  trial  again. 
It  is  finished,  and  God  has  given  us  this  key, 
as  it  were,  with  those  sacred  words.  I  will 


64 


AGNES. 


record  this,  therefore,  for  a  beginning.  Will 
you  give  me  a  thought  ?  ” 

Wife .  u  It  is  an  emblem  and  pledge  of  re¬ 
opening.  We  use  keys  not  merely  to  lock 
up.  You  seem  to  have  regarded  this  key  as 
a  seal  upon  the  stone.  This  is  true,  but  let 
us  also  think  of  it  as  an  emblem  and  a  pledge 
of  re-admission  to  her.  She  is  ours  still.  She 
may  have  ten  thousand  instructors  in  heaven, 
but  we  are  her  parents.  It  seems  to  me  a 
great  honor  to  be  a  parent  of  a  redeemed 
soul.  How  much  nearer  this  brings  us  to  a 
likeness  with  God  than  angels  approach  !  You 
asked  me,  as  we  came  from  the  funeral, 
whether  I  regretted  all  the  sickness  and  sor¬ 
row  which  Agnes  cost.  To  have  a  child  in 
heaven  is  worth  all  that  a  parent  can  suffer. 
And  now,  the  keenness  of  affliction  having 
passed  by,  this  key  will  seem  to  us  like  a  hope 
which  is  laid  up  for  us  in  heaven.” 

Husband.  “  This  suggests  a  thought  to  me. 
The  little  key  is  a  token  of  possession.  She 
is  our  precious  child.  Her  past  history,  the 


AGNES. 


65 


memory  of  her,  the  happiness  she  afforded  us, 
the  love  to  each  other  of  which  she  was  the 
occasion,  the  beautiful,  hallowed  thoughts 
which  we  shall  continue  to  have  about  her, 
are  a  possession  which  no  one  can  take  from 
us.  She  was  God’s  gift,  and  she  is  ours  still. 
He  has  placed  her  away  for  a  season,  but  has 
given  us  the  key,  and  it  will  make  us  feel  that 
we  have  a  child.  When  people  say  to  us, 
‘Have  you  children?’  we  shall  answer, 6  Yes, 
one  —  in  heaven.’” 

Wife.  “  It  will  open  a  way  for  us  to  sor¬ 
rowing  hearts.  How  much  good  wTe  may  now 
do  in  comforting  and  instructing  others.  No 
one  knows  what  this  affliction  is  till  they  have 
experienced  it.  I  used  to  think  I  knew  all 
about  it,  while  condoling  with  bereaved  moth¬ 
ers  ;  but  now  I  see  my  mistake.  How  easy 
it  seemed  then  to  be  reconciled,  by  thinking 
that  God  did  it,  and  that  the  child  was  better 
off,  or  a  great  many  such  true  and  good  things ; 
but  now  I  see,  that  one  may  have  every  con- 
solation,  and  still  the  affliction  continue.  I 


6* 


66 


AGNES. 


used  to  think  otherwise.  Now  I  see  that  one 
who  loses  an  arm  may  have  all  Christian  con¬ 
solations;  and  yet,  when  he  is  reminded  every 
few  moments  that  he  has  but  one  arm,  it  is 
no  less  a  calamity  than  though  he  had  no  con¬ 
solation,  only  he  can  bear  it  better.” 

Husband.  “I  must  read  you  a  passage  from 
Shakspeare,  if  you  will  excuse  me  a  moment 
to  bring  the  book  from  the  library. 

“The  subject  seems  to  be, c Counsel  of  no 
weight  in  misery’ : 

“  ‘  I  pray  thee  cease  thy  counsel, 

Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve ;  give  me  not  counsel, 

Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear, 

But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 

Bring  me  a  father  that  so  loved  his  child, 

Whose  joy  of  her  is  so  overwhelm’d  like  mine, 

And  bid  him  speak  of  patience, 

Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine, 

And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain ; 

As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such. 

If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard, 

Cry,  sorrow,  wag !  and  hem,  when  he  should  groan, 
Patch  grief  with  proverbs,  make  misfortune  drunk 
With  candle  wasters,  —  bring  him  yet  to  me, 


AGNES. 


67 


And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 

But  there  is  no  such  man.  For,  brother,  men 
Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 
Which  they  themselves  not  feel ;  but,  tasting  it, 

Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 
Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage, 

Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread, 

Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words. 

No,  no ;  ’t  is  all  men’s  office  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow  : 

But  no  man’s  virtue,  nor  sufficiency, 

To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endure 

The  like  himself;  therefore  give  me  no  counsel; 

My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement.’  ”  * 

Wife.  “  Some  people  seem  fond  of  preaching 
to  others  in  trouble;  but  a  little  sympathy,  a 
drawing  near  to  one,  a  kind  word,  or  look,  or 
token  of  remembrance,  how  it  holds  us  up ! 
It  is  not  so  much  what  is  said,  as  the  manner^ 
indicating  the  disposition,  and  making  you  feel 
that  you  are  not  forsaken.  ” 

Husband.  “  Why  do  you  suppose  the  Saviour 
took  those  three  men  with  him  when  he  was 
going  into  Gethsemane  ?  He  left  them  at  the 
entrance.” 


*  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Act.  V. 


68 


AGNES. 


Wife.  “I  suppose  he  loved  to  feel  that  he 
had  friends  near.  How  natural  this  is !  ” 

Husband .  “And  what  a  beautiful  idea  it 
gives  us  of  the  human  sympathies  of  Jesus, 
touched  with  the  feeling  of  our  infirmities!” 

Wife.  “But  there  is  one  way  of  show¬ 
ing  sympathy,  which  I  desire  to  avoid,  for  I 
suffered  from  it  more  than  I  can  tell.  Calls 
on  a  bereaved  person  are,  for  the  most  part, 
agonizing,  unless  there  be  great  intimacy  be¬ 
tween  the  parties.  In  other  cases,  there  is  a 
questioning,  and  a  moralizing,  and  a  probing 
into  all  the  secret,  painful  parts  of  the  afflic¬ 
tion,  and  a  rehearsing  of  afflictions  which  the 
visitor  herself  had  passed  through,  which  does 
much  to  keep  the  wound  from  healing  over. 
I  am  resolved  that,  unless  I  am  on  very  inti¬ 
mate  terms,  or  in  a  peculiar  relation  to  a  be¬ 
reaved  person,  I  will  express  my  sympathy 
merely  by  some  message,  or  little  gift,  or  act 
of  remembrance,  and  not  by  being  one  of 
twenty  or  thirty  people  to  make  the  poor  suf¬ 
ferer  go  over  the  bitter  tale  again  and  again, 


AGNES. 


69 


or  to  make  her  sit  and  endure  a  stiff,  cere¬ 
monious  visit.” 

Husband .  “  Some  people,  like,  and  even 

expect,  such  things.  To  me  it  is  almost 
so  many  bereavements.  But  I  had  almost  for¬ 
gotten  one  more  thought,  which  the  little  key 
has  suggested.  It  is  given  to  us  by  Him  who 
has  the  keys  of  death.  This  is  one  of  them. 
0,  how  many  such  keys  he  has !  He  shutteth 
and  no  man  openeth.  Did  we  not  know  that 
he  loves  us,  should  we  not  feel  that  he 
mocked  us,  and  that  for  an  egg  he  had  given 
us  a  scorpion  ?  ‘  Take  this  key,’  he  seems  to 

say.  ‘I  have  taken  Agnes  away  from  you. 
No  one  will  question  my  right  to  do  so.  She 
was  mine  before  she  was  yours,  and  after  she 
became  yours.  The  number  of  her  months 
was  with  me.  Take  this  key.  Keep  it  as  a 
mark  of  my  sovereignty,  and  a  badge  of  your 
unquestioning  submission.’  Can  you  assent 
to  this,  my  love,  and  shall  I  write  it  down?” 

Wife.  66 1  cannot  be  stationary  in  my  love 
to  God  in  times  of  affliction.  I  must  part 


70 


AGNES. 


with  him,  or  love  him  more  than  ever.  1 
choose  the  latter.  This  is  a  new  unfolding  of 
his  character  to  us.  We  cannot,  therefore, 
feel  toward  God  precisely  as  we  did  before. 
Now,  if  I  question  his  perfect  rectitude  and 
love,  I  become  an  atheist ;  instead  of  this,  I 
will  love  him  more  than  ever,  in  proportion 
as  he  reveals  himself,  even  though  it  be  in 
affliction. — Are  you  waiting  for  me  to  propose 
a  thought  ?  One  thing  I  wish  that  this  little 
key  would  do  for  me.  It  must  lock  up  un¬ 
pleasant  recollections.” 

Husband.  “  May  I  ask,  before  they  are 
locked  up,  that  you  will  let  me  know  some  of 
them  ?  ” 

Wife.  “We  have  spoken  of  them,  you 
know,  several  times.  I  find  myself  dwelling 
on  second  causes,  and  making  myself  need¬ 
lessly  unhappy.  If  we  had  only  sent  for  the 
physician  on  the  first  day  that  Agnes  was  sick* 
instead  of  letting  our  neighbor  II.  give  her 
that  medicine.  It  weakened  her,  and  made 
her  less  able  to  bear  the  disease,  which  other 


AGNES. 


71 


wise  she  might  have  thrown  off.  But  0,  that 
thoughtless  Phoebe,  putting  sheets  on  her  crib 
which  had  just  come  from  ironing  without  be¬ 
ing  aired !  The  doctor  said  that  it  did  harm. 
Besides,  I  never  felt  sure  that,  the  night  before 

Agnes  died,  the  girl  did  not  give  her  the 

♦ 

wrong  medicine. 

a  The  doctor  looked  surprised  when  he  saw 
that  the  new  phial,  which  he  ordered  the  even¬ 
ing  before,  had  not  been  uncorked  the  next 
morning.  Phoebe  says  she  gave  her  no  medi¬ 
cine  ;  I  shall  always  feel  that  she  gave  her  those 
powerful  drops,  by  mistake.  But  then,  I  say, 
why  dwell  on  these  things?  We  did  the  best 
that  we  knew  how  to  do  at  the  time.  If  the 
thing  itself  was  appointed  to  happen,  so  were 
the  means  to  produce  it  —  and  let  all  these 
things  go  into  the  grave.  Only  we  shall  learn 
wisdom  by  experience.” 

Husband.  “  I  will  gladly  change  this  topic, 
and  say :  I  will  not  part  with  this  key,  and 
vet  I  cheerfully  give  my  child  to  God. 

“  I  heard  some  one  say,  in  a  sermon,  that 


72 


AGNES. 


an  English  lady  had  a  fine  flower  on  a  very 
rare  plant,  with  which  she  was  so  enraptured 
that  she  wished  the  queen  might  have  it ;  and, 
being  on  suitable  terms  with  the  sovereign, 
she  had  it  conveyed  to  her.  I  think  it  is  not 
that  God  had  the  right  to  my  child,  that 
makes  me  submissive ;  I  love  him,  and,  if  he 
wishes  for  my  child,  he  shall  have  her,  and 
me,  too.  But  no  money,  no  persuasions,  could 
get  this  key  from  me.” 

Wife.  66  Do  let  me  name  one  thing  more, 
lest  I  forget  it  —  if  you  had  finished.  The 
little  key  is  a  symbol  of  individuality  and 
separateness.  Sometimes  I  lose  Agnes  in  a 
great  crowd  of  children  in  heaven.  Our  min¬ 
ister  said,  that  probably  more  have  gone  to 
heaven  in  childhood,  than  in  any  other  period 
of  life.  6  Where  is  our  little  girl  ? 9  I  find  myself 
saying.  She  is  not  lost  in  the  crowd.  Special 
assignments  have  been  made  with  regard  to 
her ;  she  is  in  the  hands  of  those,  who,  if  I  could 
see  them,  would  make  me  feel  perfectly  happy 


AGNES. 


70 
( o 


in  leaving  her  with  them.  Her  grave  is  a 
separate  one.  No  other  grave  on  earth  can  be 
confounded  with  it  in  our  thoughts.  This 
is  the  key  to  nothing  but  her  little  coffin. 
And  now  is  there  not  as  much  individuality 
and  separateness  in  the  love  and  care  of  God 
for  her  ?  ” 

Husband.  “  Christ  said  of  little  ones,  ‘  That 
in  heaven  their  angels  do  always  behold  the 
face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven.’  ” 

Wife.  “  Pray,  what  does  that  mean  ?  for  I 
never  understood  it.” 

Husband.  a  It  means,  I  have  been  told,  that 
angels  who  minister  to  these  little  ones  are 
not  inferior  beings,  but 6  presence  angels they 
are  deemed  worthy  of  the  chiefest  care,  and 
are  in  charge  of  those  who  can  say,  as  the  an¬ 
gel  said  to  Mary, 4 1  am  Gabriel,  that  stand  in 
the  presence  of  God.’ 

“  Your  thought  about  individuality  and  sep¬ 
arateness  makes  me  think  of  this:  Suppose 
that  every  little  coffin  had  a  little  key, 
trimmed  with  white  ribbon,  and  that  they 


74 


AGNES. 


should  all  be  hung  up  in  our  sight.  What  a 
wilderness  of  them  there  would  be !  We 
should  be  unwilling  to  attach  undue  import¬ 
ance  to  our  little  treasure ;  we  should  say, 
Tens  of  thousands  have  suffered  all  that  we 
have  suffered ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  God  has 
as  distinct  a  knowledge  of  our  loss,  and  of  our 
dear  child,  as  though  she  were  the  only  ob¬ 
ject  of  his  care. — Let  me  say  one  thing  more; 
I  believe  it  is  my  turn :  I  am  admitted  by  this 
key  to  companionship  with  all  who  have  chil¬ 
dren  in  heaven. 

(C  Now  I  do  feel,  after  all,  that  there  is  some 
honor  and  privilege  in  being  selected  by 
Christ  to  contribute  an  infant  soul  to  his  me¬ 
diatorial  crown.  I  am  glad  that  I  had  a  flower 
in  my  garden  so  precious  that  the  Lord  of  all 
wished  to  transplant  it  for  me  to  his  own  spe¬ 
cial  care  and  love.  A  peasant  is  pleased 
when  a  nobleman  or  his  lady  stops  at  his  gate 
and  asks  for  a  slip  from  some  beautiful  plant. 
I  look  upon  a  family  where  there  are  many 
children,  and  say  to  myself:  ‘ You  have  no 


V 


AGNES.  75 

dear  little  representative  of  your  number  in 
heaven.  You,  parents,  have  never  had  the 
privilege  of  sending  a  sweet  envoy  to  the 
court  of  God.  You  would  not  choose  to  send 
one,  nor  would  we  choose  it  for  you.  But, 
had  God  seen  lit  to  take  some  little  child  of 
yours  to  himself,  I  feel  that  you  would,  in 
time,  be  glad,  and  at  death  your  meeting  with 
it  would  have  a  rapture  which  would  make 
you  bless  God  that  he  took  away  your  little 
one  to  enhance  your  joy/  Now,  this  little 
key  says  to  us,  ‘You  belong  to  that  favored 
band  who,  at  their  coming,  will  receive  their 
own  with  usury/  The  key  is  a  decoration,  a 
badge  of  membership.  I  am  glad  to  belong 
to  such  a  communion,  even  at  such  cost.  I 
have  a  child  at  court.  She  is  a  maid  of 
honor.  0  Saviour !  we  thank  thee  for  num¬ 
bering  us  with  those  who  are  counted  worthy 
of  this/' 

Wift e.  “  It  is  time  to  finish,  for  the  present, 
I  suppose;  but  one  more  thought  occurs  to 


76 


AGNES. 


me,  and,  as  you  began,  I  will  conclude :  May 
I  take  this  key  with  me,  if  I  go  astray. 

"How  God  can  punish  us  !  What  arrows  he 
has  in  his  quiver  !  How  he  knows  where  to 
strike  !  The  little  key  says  to  us :  ( Go  thy 
way,  sin  no  more,  lest  a  worse  thing  happen 
unto  thee/  Sad  is  it  to  think  that  in  the 
course  of  time  we  may  depart  from  God, — 
some  wordly  influences  may  take  our  hearts 
away  from  Christ ;  we  may  become  lovers  of 
pleasure ;  temptations,  through  prosperity, 
may  ensnare  both  of  us;  we  know  not 
what  we  are  capable  of;  affliction  has  11c 
power  in  itself  to  keep  us  in  the  path  of 
duty.  If  we  ever  wander,  may  a  sudden,  ac¬ 
cidental  sight  of  this  little  key  remind  us 
how  perishable  are  earthly  joys,  how  fading 
its  honors,  how  insecure  its  possessions,  how 
entirely  God  can  dispose  of  us ;  and,  more¬ 
over,  that,  wre  were  never  so  safe,  and  never 
happier,  than  when  we  were  in  affliction.  Let 
as  pray  to  God  that  he  will  use  this  little  key 


i 


AGNES. 


77 


to  lock  up  our  way,  if  we  should  seem  to 
wander  from  him.  I  really  feel  afraid  to  come 
out  of  trouble.  A  season  of  affliction  is  freed 
from  many  a  snare.  What  was  it  that  Bun- 
yan’s  pilgrims  said  when  they  came  into  the 
valley  of  humiliation,  and  fell  down  and  kissed 
the  flowers  of  the  place  ?  It  was  this,  I 
think : 

“  ‘He  that  is  down  needs  fear  no  fall, 

He  that  is  low,  no  pride  ; 

He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 
Have  God  to  be  his  guide.’” 

Husband.  “  When  we  have  felt  and  said  all 
that  is  right  and  proper,  the  affliction  remains. 
It  was  intended  as  an  affliction,  and,  as  one 
said, 4  This  is  a  lamentation,  and  shall  be  for  a 
lamentation.’  Every  now  and  then  I  find 
myself  thinking  how  old  Agnes  would  have 
been  at  the  present  time.  There  is  no  such 
relaxation  to  a  weary  man  as  a  little  child. 
How  often  I  have  hastened  home  from  busi¬ 
ness  meetings,  just  for  the  sake  of  taking  that 
little  child  into  my  arms  and  forgetting  every- 


7* 


78 


AGNES. 


tiling  in  watching  it.  A  parent,  in  the  play, 

says  of  a  little  child, 

0 

“  *  He’s  all  my  exercise,  my  mirth,  my  matter, 

And,  with  his  varying  childness,  cures 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blo^d.’  ” 

Wife .  a  0,  what  a  loss  it  is !  But  i  the 
Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away, 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.’  ” 

Husband.  “  Let  us  agree  that  to-morrow  we 
will  begin  and  see  what  good  we  can  do, 
under  the  influence  of  what  we  have  expe¬ 
rienced” 

Wife.  “I  have  marked  out  several  plans, 
and  at  some  future  time  we  will  discuss 
them” 


CHAPTER  VII. 


The  anniversary  of  Agnes’  death  and  funeral 
arrived.  We  passed  through  the  first  of 
these,  sustained  by  the  thought  that  the  burial 
had  not  transpired,  thus  deceiving  ourselves 
with  one  of  those  stratagems  in  which  the  af¬ 
flicted  are  only  less  ingenious  than  the  insane. 
And  when  the  anniversary  of  the  funeral 
came,  I  said  to  myself,  ‘  She  was  not  buried 
till  the  10th,  —  this  is  Friday,  the  same  day 
of  the  week,  indeed,  but  it  is  not  the  10th.’ 
When,  the  10th  came,  we  said,  ‘  This  is  not  the 
day ;  she  was  not  buried  on  Saturday,  but 
yesterday  was  the  true  anniversary.’  Such 
was  my  weakness. 

We  had  looked  forward  to  these  days  with 
sad  apprehensions,  and  wished  that  they  were 
past.  Still,  we  endeavored  to  go  through 
them,  submitting  to  the  mighty  Hand  that  ap- 

(79) 


80 


AGNES. 


points  times  and  seasons,  and  does  not  change 
the  order  of  nature  for  any  of  his  creatures. 
We  knew  that  we  should  suffer,  and  we  re¬ 
garded  it  as  an  appointed  part  of  our  trial. 

So  we  repaired  to  the  room  where  the  dear 
child  died,  and,  as  the  hour  arrived,  never  to 
be  forgotten,  we  prayed  together,  and  amidst 
tears  and  interrupted  utterances  we  acknowl¬ 
edged  the  perfect  right  which  God  had  to  be¬ 
reave  us ;  confessed  that  anything  short  of  end¬ 
less  misery  was  less  than  our  deserts ;  rejoiced 
that  we  had  a  child  in  heaven,  one  treasure 
where  no  thief  approacheth;  gave  thanks  for 
the  support  afforded  us  in  our  trial,  and  espe¬ 
cially  that  it  had  made  us  in  any  degree  use¬ 
ful  to  others ;  and  we  prayed  earnestly,  and 
above  all  things,  that  God  would  fulfil  his 
purposes  in  this  affliction,  whatever  they 
might  be. 

That  evening  I  brought  from  the  post-office 
a  letter  to  my  wife,  from  her  most  intimate 
and  endeared  female  friend,  who  had  gone  to 
a  distant  part  of  the  world,  with  her  husband, 


AGNES. 


81 


to  reside  for  several  years.  The  letter  proved 
to  be  the  lady’s  journal  for  several  months, 
and  it  was  dated  a  year  ago  and  upon  the  day 
that  Agnes  died.  She  began  by  saying : 
“  My  dearest  Agnes,  I  know  not  why  it  is,  but 
I  feel  an  irrepressible  impulse  to  begin  a  jour¬ 
nal  for  your  entertainment.  So  I  date  my 
long  letter  forthwith,  but  0,  what  events  may 
betide  us  before  this  reaches  you !  ”  The  let¬ 
ter  was  a  most  entertaining  account  of  a 
lady’s  experience  and  observations  in  a  city 
on  the  other  side  of  the  globe,  interspersed 
with  narratives  of  short  voyages  and  travels. 
Of  course,  it  furnished  food  for  thought  and 
conversation  till  late  that  night,  bringing  tears 
of  joy  at  some  girlish  reminiscences  of  school 
days,  and  other  tears  at  the  congratulations 
which  it  bore  on  hearing  of  the  birth  of  our 

child.  < 

% 

“  Dated,”  said  my  wife,  “  the  day  that  Agnes 
died,  and  received  on  the  next  anniversary  ; 
how  interesting !  ” 

“  I  suppose,”  said  I,  “  some  people  would 


82 


AGNES. 


wonder  at  ns ;  but  I  choose,  at  the  risk  of  be 
ing  wrong,  to  see  and  acknowledge  a  good, 
kind  Hand  in  such  coincidences.  I  am  not 
unwilling  to  believe  that  the  all-seeing  God, 
looking  at  once  on  us  and  on  your  friend  the 
other  side  of  the  globe,  devised  this  coinci¬ 
dence,  and  has  brought  it  about  for  our  com¬ 
fort.  Hie  stayeth  his  rough  wind  in  the  day 
of  his  east  wind/  6  But  I  am  poor  and  needy, 
yet  the  Lord  thinketh  upon  me/  ” 

“  What  an  idea  it  gives  us,”  said  she,  “of 
the  omnipresence  of  God!” 

66  And  how  it  illustrates,”  I  observed,  66  the 
ease  with  which  God  plans  different  events  far 
asunder  in  time  and  space,  and  brings  them 
together,  matched  and  finished,  in  his  ap¬ 
pointed  time.  Just  think  of  what  it  was  nec¬ 
essary  for  Him  to  do,  on  the  waves  and  with 
the  winds,  aud  by  means  of  the  numerous 
conveyances  and  the  scores  of  men  who  had 
charge  of  them,  and  of  the  mails,  if  it  were 
his  purpose  to  bring  that  letter  to  our  door, 


AGNES. 


83 


not  yesterday,  nor  to-morrow,  but  on  this 
anniversary.” 

a  If  He  did  all  this  for  our  little  comfort,” 
said  she,  “  it  makes  me  say,  as  the  people  did 
of  Jesus  at  the  grave  of  Lazarus,  ‘  Could  not 
this  man,  which  opened  the  eyes  of  the  blind, 
have  caused  that  even  this  man  should  not 
have  died  ?  ’  Surely,  He  could  have  spared 
Agnes  to  us,  and  he  was  willing  to  do  so,  but 
his  reluctance  to  make  us  suffer  was  over¬ 
ruled  by  higher  considerations.  This  letter, 

# 

coming  to-night,  persuades  me  to  feel  more 
than  ever  that  God  is  as  kind  and  good  in  our 
trials  as  in  our  blessings,  if  we  love  him.” 

But  the  anniversary  of  the  burial  arrived, 
—  the  day  of  the  week,  that  Friday, —  and 
we  wept  apart  much  of  the  time,  and  when 
we  were  together,  we  each  made  an  effort, 
now  and  then,  to  break  the  silence,  for  we 
were  so  troubled  that  we  could  not  speak. 
After  tea,  I  went  to  the  post-office,  with  the 
intention  of  returning  soon  and  spending  the 
evening  at  home. 


84 


A  G  N  E  S  . 


Who  would  have  thought  that  T  could  stay 
away  till  ten  o’clock  that  night  ? 

I  returned  at  that  hour  and  found  my  wife 
waiting  for  me  in  the  parlor.  A  book  which 
she  had  been  reading  lay  on  the  table  before 
her,  and  with  it  her  handkerchief,  which,  as  I 
passed  round,  I  involuntarily  took  up  to  catch 
from  it  a  very  rare  perfume,  which  a  friend 
from  Malabar  had  lately  given  her.  But  un¬ 
derneath  the  handkerchief  lay  the  tortoise 
shell  card-case. 

.  “  0,  what  have  you  been  doing  with  this  ?  ” 
said  I. 

“  Having  some  very  profitable  thoughts 
over  it,”  she  replied.  “  But  come  and  tell 
me  what  has  happened  to  you,  for  it  must 
be  something  strange  to  have  detained  you 
all  the  evening.” 

I  held  the  card-case  in  my  hand,  and  no 
doubt  I  used  some  sign  of  endearment  toward 
it,  for  I  could  not  help  exclaiming,  “  0  what 
a  blessing  is  a  peaceful  death,  an  honored 


AGNES. 


85 


burial,  an  innocent  grave.”  I  felt  happy  to 
see  that  little  key. 

"What  makes  you  feel  so  happy?”  said 
she.  "  Pray  tell  me  where  you  have  been, 
and  what  has  happened  to  you.” 

"  I  have  just  come  from  the  jail,”  said  I. 

In  her  endeavors  to  comfort  those  that 
mourn,  my  wife  heard  that  a  youth  who  had 
been  tried  for  his  life  on  a  charge  of  murder, 
and  was  brought  to  our  city  jail  for  safer  cus¬ 
tody,  was  the  son  of  a  woman  whom  she  had 
once  or  twice  employed  in  household  work. 
She  had  become  intemperate,  through  domes¬ 
tic  trouble,  and  the  son  had  killed  his  com¬ 
panion  at  a  gambling  table.  He  was  now 
awaiting  his  execution.  My  wife  had  inter¬ 
ested  our  minister,  Dr.  D.,  in  the  young  man, 
so  that,  as  soon  as  he  was  lodged  in  our  jail, 
the  clergyman  sought  and  obtained  permission 
to  visit  him. 

The  result  of  his  visits  was,  that  the  youth 
gave  signs  of  penitence,  and  had  embraced 


8 


AGNES. 


«6 

the  offers  of  pardon  through  the  sufferings 
and  death  of  Christ. 

“  On  my  way  to  the  post-office/’  said  I, 
66  Dr.  D.  met  me  at  his  door,  and  told  me  that 
he  was  going  to  the  cell,  and  asked  me  to  go 
with  him.  I  asked  Mrs.  D.  to  come  and  spend 
the  evening  with  you,  till  I  returned.  I  pre¬ 
sume  that  company  detained  her. 

“  You  know  that  to-morrow  is  the  day 
fixed  for  the  execution.  Through  the  small 
holes,  over  the  doors  of  the  cells,  we  saw  here 
and  there  a  face  of  one  and  another  who 
had  been  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  the 
jailer  after  dark.  Michael,  your  poor  boy,  was 
sitting  on  the  side  of  his  cob-bedstead,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  as  we  entered,  when  he  shook 
hands  with  Dr.  D.,  looking  at  the  same  time 
at  me,  and,  as  I  could  not  but  think,  with  the 
thought  flashing  through  his  mind  whether  I 
had  come  with  any  message  of  hope  or  relief. 

“  I  saw  a  silver  can  on  his  rough  table, 
and  took  it  up,  thinking  that  it  looked  fa¬ 
miliar,  and  there  was  the  inscription,  ‘  Agnes  : 


AGNES. 


87 


from  her  Grandmother.’  He  saw  me  looking 
at  it,  and  said  that  a  kind  lady  had  sent 
him  some  broth  Jn  it.  Did  you  send  it  in 
the  can  purposely  ?  ” 

“  I  wras  looking  for  something  else/’  said 
she,  “  and  saw  the  can ;  and  the  contrast 
between  Michael’s  mother  and  myself,  as  to 
our  children,  struck  me  so,  that  I  could  not 
help  sending  it  as  an  acknowledgment  of 
God’s  mercy  to  me.” 

“  As  I  held  the  can  in  my  hands,”  said  I, 
“the  same  thought  occurred  to  me,  and  I 
said  to  myself,  ‘I  will  take  the  cup  of  sal¬ 
vation,  and  call  on  the  name  of  the  Lord.’ 
I  told  Michael  that  I  knew  the  lady,  and 
this  was  a  sufficient  introduction. 

“  Dr.  D.  began  to  talk  with  him  about  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  opened  to  him,  as  he 
observed  he  had  often  done  before,  the  great 
truth  of  the  gospel,  free  and  full  remission 
of  sins  to  every  one  who  accepts  and  pleads 
Jesus  Christ,  the  Lamb  of  God,  as  the  sacrifice 
for  sin.  6  Michael,’  said  he,  ‘  what  could  you 


88 


AGNES. 


do  now  without  an  atoning  Saviour,  one  that 
has  suffered  for  you  ?  Your  day  of  grace  is 
nearly  out;  you  cannot  live  to  atone  for 
your  own  sins,  even  if  it  were  possible  ever  to 
do  it.  But  the  Son  of  God  has  answered  all 
the  demands  of  justice  for  you  by  bearing 
your  sins  in  his  own  body  on  the  tree.  Man 
cannot  justly  pardon  you ;  he  cannot  make 
any  substitution  for  your  punishment  which 
would  answer  the  ends  of  justice,  as  your  own 
death  will  do.  But  God  can,  as  it  respects  all 
your  sins,  and  now  you  are  going  to  the  bar 
of  God  before  this  time  to-morrow,  pleading, 
‘Who  is  he  that  condemneth?  It  is  Christ 
that  died.’  ” 

Wife.  “How  did  Michael  look?  Was  he 
crying  ?  ” 

Husband .  “  I  shall  never  forget  his  posture, 

his  action,  his  emphasis,  as,  with  his  head  on 
one  sicle,  his  neck  bare,  and  in  his  stockinged 
feet,  he  lifted  up  his  head  and  said  : 

“  ‘  Dr.  D.,  I  am  such  a  sinner  that  nothing 
makes  me  feel  safe  only  that  God’s  own  Son 


AGNES. 


89 


died  for  me.  I  was  telling  the  turnkey,  ‘It’s 
all  the  same  as  God.  He  was  God.  I  can’t 
puzzle  it  out,  only  I  know  he  was  God  —  fum¬ 
bling  over  his  testament  and  reading  John 
1 : 1, — ‘  And  the  Word  was  God.’  The  fact  is,’ 
said  he,  ‘I  am  afraid  I  sent  Dick  Ross  to 
misery ;  he  was  as  wicked  a  sinner  as  I  am, 
and  that’s  as  bad  as  can  be;  and  now  I 
ought  to  go  there,  too ;  it  seems  as  though  I 
could  n’t  get  along,  no  how,  without  going 
there,  too ;  it’s  so  just,  you  see,  for  I  can’t  pay 
for  it  no  way  nor  no  shape  ;  it  is  n’t  worth  the 
first  red  cent  all  I  can  ever  do,  and  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  and  suffer,  till  you  told 
me  how  God  could  save  me,  Christ  wanted 
to  save  me,  and  Christ  suffered  what  would 
have  been  the  same  as  hell  for  me.  Now 
you  ’re  sure,  Doctor,  that  this  is  all  so,  I  sup¬ 
pose  —  and  this  gentleman,  does  he  think  so 
too  ?  —  My  goodness,’  said  he,  smiling,  6 1 
need  n’t  ask,  for  I  ’ye  had  such  feelings  here, 
that  I  did  n’t  know  what  to  make  of  ’em ; 
only  it ’s  too  much ;  I  don’t  know  why  He 


90 


AGNES. 


wants  to  save  me.  He  had  n’t  ought  to  save 
me,  so  to  speak,  and  I  have  told  Him  so,  but 
something  kept  putting  these  words  into  my 
mind,  ‘  won’t  cast  ’em  out,  won’t  cast  ’em  out/ 
c  save  ’em  to  the  outmost,’  —  and  I  set  up  and 
sung  that  Methodist  hymn,  —  0,  how  I  used 
to  sing  it  through  my  nose  to  mock  the  folks 
at  the  Methodists’,  and  I  learnt  it  by  mock¬ 
ing  ’em,  —  so  I  set  up  and  sung  it  last  night, 
as  loud  as  I  could,  and  the  people  here  all 
round  cried  out  to  me  not  to  make  such  a 
racket,  but  go  to  sleep.’  ” 

“‘And  the  prisoners  heard  them,’”  said  my 
wife.  “What  was  the  hymn  ?  Why  did  you 
not  ask  him  to  say  it  to  you  ?  ” 

“We  did,”  said  I. 

“  He  folded  his  arms,  and  raised  his  eyes,  and 

♦ 

sung : 

“  ‘  "When  I  was  sinking  down,  sinking  down,  sinking  down, 
When  I  wras  sinking  down,  sinking  down ; 

Jesus  resigned  his  crown,  Jesus  resigned  his  crown,  Jesus 
resigned  his  crown, 

To  save  my  soul.’ 


AGNES. 


91 


“  In  tlie  third  line,  his  hands  were  unfolded, 
and  were  lifted  up  with  his  eyes. 

“‘Now/  said  he,  ‘that’s  as  true  as  preach¬ 
ing,  and  if  Christ  wants  to  save  me,  I  shall  let 
him,  and  all  I  can  do  will  be  to  praise  through 
all  eternity.  0,  *1  wish  I  had  n’t  laughed  at 
good  folks  so.  But  there,  I’m  to  be  saved ;  but 
if  He  had  n’t  died  for  me  He  could  n’t  have 
proved  it  to  me,  nor  made  me  believe  it.  And 
if  he  hadn’t  have  been  God,  nothing  could 
have  made  me  feel  that  there  was  any  grounds 
to  stand  on.  What  touches  God,  you  see,  is 
dreadful,  —  it’s  beyond  everything,  and  if 
God  did  it,  it  covers  everything.  Doctor,’ 
said  he,  ‘  I  ain’t  afraid  to  die  ;  it ’s  short ;  I  ’ll 
fix  my  eyes  on  Christ,  and  feel  that  I ’m 
going  straight  to  him.  0,  poor  Dick !  he 
lived  till  morning,  and  they  had  a  minister 
to  him,  and  may  be  he ’s  saved ;  how  he  ’ll 
shake  hands  and  forgive  me  ;  but,  if  he  isn’t, 
must  I  be  lost  because  he  is?  or  hasn’t 
Christ  a  right  to  pick  out  wrhom  he ’s  a  mind 
to,  all  as  bad  as  the  rest,  and  save  him  for 


92 


AGNES. 


nothing?  What  shall  I  do  if  he  doesn't? 
0,  he  will,  he  will!  ‘Of  whom  Pm  chief:' 
no  sir,  beg  your  pardon,  Michael  Runy  is  that 
same ;  how  they  will  look  up  to  see  me  com¬ 
ing  !  ‘  Why,  there 's  Michael  Runy,  that  mur¬ 
dered  Ross.'  Well,  it’ll  teach ’em  something 
they  never  knew  before.  Doctor,'  said  he, 
c don’t  you  never  preach  nothing  but  this: 
you  tell  people,  as  strong  as  you  can,  that 
God  wants  to  save  every  mother’s  son  of 
'em.  Step  in  among  them  men  and  boys  that ’s 
smoking  afore  the  bank  every  Saturday  eve¬ 
ning,  and  tell  them  about  Michael  Runy  and 
Jesus  Christ.  There  ain’t  one  of  ’em,  if  ye  ’ll 
speak  kind  and  affectionate  like,  but  what  ’ll 
hear  you  and  thank  you;  and  nothing  else 
but  talking  to  them  about  Jesus  Christ  will 
touch  ’em.’ 

“  He  would  have  gone  on  all  night  with  his 
wonderful  How  of  thought  and  words.  I 
wished  that  I  could  have  had  all  the  divinity 
students  in  the  land  in  that  cell  and  corridor, 
to  hear  that  dying  man’s  lecture  on  the  atone- 


ment,  and  his  exhortation  on  preaching 
Christ. 

“  But  Dr.  D.  said  to  him  :  ‘  Your  mother  told 
me,  yesterday  afternoon,  Michael,  that  you 
wished  to  be  baptized.  Do  you  ?  I  should 
like  to  do  it  for  you  if  you  wish.  ’ 

“‘Yes,  sir/  said  Michael,  ‘I  asked  mother  if 
she  would  he  willing  t©  come  too,  and  she 
said,  No,  she  wasn’t  good  enough  herself. 
Says  she,  ‘  Mike,  if  I  had  only  had  you 
trained  up  in  the  ways  of  the  Lord,  you’d  have 
never  come  to  this.’  ‘  Well,  no  matter,’  says 
I,  6  mother,  don’t  take  on  so ;  only  turn  about 
yourself,  and  get  religion,  and  look  out  for 
David  and  Madge,  —  they’re  young ;  and  if 
you’ll  give  up  that  cursed  drinking,  mother — ’ 
‘  I  will,’  says  she,  ‘  Mike,  I  have  n’t  tasted  no 
sperits  sence  the  constable  took  you  from  din¬ 
ner  that  day;  and  I  won’t.  I  had  a  bottle 
under  the  table,  but  I  flung  it  away.’  ” 

“  Did  you  know,”  said  my  wife,  u  that  he 
was  once  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  very  re¬ 
spectable  girl,  a  cousin  of  our  cook  ?” 


94 


AGNES. 


“  He  told  us  so,”  said  I.  “  Dr.  D.  asked  him 
why  he  wished  to  be  baptized  ?  ” 

a  6  Euthy  Dewire,’  said  he,  ‘  that  married  the 
blacksmith’s  son  down  by  the  little  bridge, 
used  to  company  with  me  till  she  was  con¬ 
verted,  and  when  she  saw  she  couldn’t  change 
me,  she  left  off  going  with  me.  I  went  to  see 
her  taken  into  the  Methodists’.  She  was  the 
only  one.  She  took  her  bonnet  off,  and 
kneeled  down,  and  the  minister  read  a  little 
end  took  her  hand,  and  put  bison  her  head. 
It  was  solemn,  very  solemn,  ’specially  when  he 
said  those  words  over  her,  ‘  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost.’  I  felt  that  them  three  were 
taking  notice  of  Euthy,  she  that  used  to  go 
with  me,  and  I  couldn’t  understand  why  such 
solemn  names  were  said  over  her.  I  asked 
her  about  it.  She  said  it  meant  that  she  was 
given  up  to  them  to  take  care  of  her,  and  she 
was  to  mind  what  they  said  to  her  in  the 
Bible.  Euthy  seemed  so  holy  after  that,  I 
should  have  broke  off  from  her  if  she  had  n’t ; 
it  made  me  so  solemn  to  look  at  her  after 


AGNES. 


95 


that.  But  you  can  tell  me,  Doctor,  more 
about  what  it  means/ 

“  ‘  In  the  first  place/  said  Dr.  D.,  ‘you  must 
not  feel  that  it  will  save  your  soul/  ‘  0,  I 
don’t/  said  Michael ;  ‘  that ’s  done  ;  the  Lord 
did  that/  ‘  I  am  glad  you  feel  so/  said  Dr. 
D. ;  6  being  baptized  helps  you  feel  that  God 
and  you  make  a  covenant  together  ;  you  give 
yourself  up  to  him.  He  also  gives  you  a  seal 
of  his  being  yours.  You  promise  to  renounce 
sin,  as  eating  the  bread  and  wine  is  a  promise 
to  love  and  obey  Christ,  and  a  help  in  doing 
it.  Water  cannot  wash  away  sins,  of  course; 
it  signifies  our  purpose  to  put  them  away.  I 
wish  your  parents,  Michael,  had  been  good 
people,  and  that  you  had  been  godly  while 
growing  up,  and  that  your  parents  had  helped 
you  put  off  sin  and  brought  you  up  for  God. 
But  now  you  can  turn  to  God  and  be  accepted 
by  him;  for  the  promise  is  “  Whosoever  con¬ 
fessed!  and  forsaketh  his  sins  shall  find  mercy/’ 
“‘And,  while  you  thus  put  off  sin,  God 


96 


AGNES. 


promises  to  be  your  God,  and  he  writes  his 
name  upon  you,  and  takes  you  to  be  his. 
Do  you  understand  all  this,  Michael  ?’ 

“  ‘  Every  word  of  it,  sir ;  my  grandmother 
made  me  say  the  Bible  and  Irymns  to  her 
every  Sunday  night,  in  the  old  country,  and  I 
guess  she  prayed  for  me ;  and  God  has  skipped 
over  my  father  and  mother,  and  remembers 
her  prayers;  but,  when  we  came  over  here, 
father  and  mother  fell  out,  and  father  died, 
and  mother  got  into  a  bad  way.  0,  do  look 
after  mother,  won’t  you  ?  Tell  her  how 
grandmother’s  talk  all  comes  back  to  me, 
and  makes  me  see  things  quick,  and  under- 
stand  them.’” 

“  Have  you  not  sometimes  noticed  this,” 
said  my  wife, — 66  a  child  of  vicious  parents 
turning  out  remarkably  well,  or,  like  this 
boy,  becoming  a  Christian ;  and,  on  inquiry, 
found  that  some  near  ancestor  of  his  had  been 
distinguished  for  piety  ?  But  do  not  let  me 
interrupt  you.” 

“  ‘  Michael,’  said  Dr.  D.,  ‘do  you  truly  re 


AGNES. 


97 


pent  of  all  your  sins,  and  do  you  wish  to  put 
away  sin  ?  ’ 

a  Michael  ‘Ido,  sir.’ 

“  Dr.  D.  ‘  Do  you  believe  on  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  the  Saviour  of  sinners,  and  that 
he  came  from  heaven  to  suffer  and  die  on  the 
cross  for  you  ?  ’ 

“  Michael  ‘  That  I  do,  sir,  surely/ 

“  Dr.  D.  ‘  Do  you  know,  Michael,  that  in 
those  days  the  cross  was  their  gallows,  and 
that  the  Son  of  God  died,  as  you  will  die  to¬ 
morrow,  only  worse,  but  without  sin  ?  ’ 

“  Michael  ‘  0,  my  soul,  Doctor,  I  never 
thought  of  that/ 

“  Dr.  D.  ‘  Yes ;  for  it  is  written,  ‘  Cursed 
is  every  one  that  hangeth  on  a  tree/  Christ 
was  ‘made  a  curse  for  us/  Now,  even  poor 
prisoners  like  you,  who  are  going  to  the  gal¬ 
lows,  need  not  despair,  for  Jesus  Christ, “  whom 
they  slew  and  hanged  on  a  tree,”  died  for  them/ 
“He  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  cried:  ‘0 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  now  I  know  it  will  not  be 
hard  to  die.  Them  nails,  for  me  !  and  them 


9 


98 


AGNES. 


thieves!  and  the  thorns !  and  how  they  mocked 
him,  and  spit  on  him,  and  him  the  Son  of 
God!  Lord  Jesus,  I  am  another  dying  thief; 
Lord,  remember  me  when  thou  comest  in  thy 
kingdom.’ 

“  The  turnkey  moved  round  and  looked  out 
through  the  grated  door,  as  though  he  heard 
a  noise  without,  but  I  saw  him  draw  his  whole 
shirt-sleeve  across  his  eyes,  after  he  had 
turned  away. 

“  Baptism  was  then  administered,  the  jailer 
having  provided  means  for  a  decent  perform¬ 
ance,  of  the  rite.  Dr.  D.  read  the  account,  in 
the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  of  the  jailer’s  bap¬ 
tism.” 

“It  was  now  half-past  nine.  Michael  had 
risen,  and  had  been  whispering  to  the  turn¬ 
key,  and  then  said,  ‘  Doctor,  could  you  pos¬ 
sibly  stay  here  all  night?’  The  Doctor  told 
him  that  he  would  stay  with  pleasure.  I 
have  just  called  at  his  house  to  inform  his 
family.  There  are  many  worse  things,”  said 
I,  “  than  having  a  little  child  taken  from  you 


AGNES. 


99 


to  heaven.  What  a  perfectly  safe  place  it 
is!” 

“  Well,”  said  my  wife,  “I  am  glad  that  you 
spent  the  evening  so.  It  was  as  good  for  you 
as  the  letter  the  other  evening  was  for  me.” 

66  Had  it  not  been  for  the  little  key,”  said  I, 
“  probably  you  would  not  have  been  led  to  take 
the  interest  in  Michael  which  has  led  to  such 
good  results.  How  much  I  thought  of  clear 
little  Agnes,  while  I  was  in  the  cell  this  even¬ 
ing.  But  tell  me  how  you  have  spent  the 
evening.  I  should  have  had  no  peace  had 
I  thought  you  were  alone.” 

“  I  have  been  trying  the  power  of  uncon¬ 
ditional  submission  to  God,  apart  from  all  con¬ 
solations,”  said  she.  “  I  am  afraid  of  making 
terms  with  God.  People  used  to  comfort  me 
by  suggesting  a  great  many  good  things  in  the 
way  of  consolation,  but  this  is  the  only  true 
comfort,  I  think  :  6  Thy  will  be  done.’  *  The 
cup  which  my  heavenly  Father  hath  given  me, 
shall  I  not  drink  it??” 

“I  think  you  are  right,”  said  I.  “It  is 


100 


AGNES. 


delightful  to  let  God  see  that  you  can  trust 
and  love  him,  when  you  cannot  understand 
him.  This  looking  out  for  compensation 
in  affliction  is  mercenary  and  selfish.  It 
is  good  to  let  the  Most  High  do  anything 
with  us,  and  we  he  still  and  know  that  he 
is  God.  Nothing  touches  us  more  than 
a  patient,  meek  spirit,  and  a  cheerful  be¬ 
havior,  in  another,  when  under  reproof  from 
us.  It  must  make  God  love  one  whom  he 
has  greatly  afflicted,  to  see  him  cheerful  in 
his  sorrow  and  hear  him  praising  God.  Even 
in  evil  men,  such  submission  moves  the  com¬ 
passion  of  God.  ‘  Seest  thou  how  Ahab  hum- 
bleth  himself  before  me  ?  I  will  not  brum 

o 

the  evil  in  his  days.’  0,  this  unconditional 
submission  to  God,  as  God  —  it  is  the  height 
of  piety.  I  try  to  go  about  my  work  in 
doing  good  to  others  with  more  love  to  God 
than  though  he  had  not  taken  Agnes  from  us. 
I  wish  to  show  him  that  I  love  him  better 
than  I  love  his  gifts.  How  many  things  hap- 


AGNES. 


101 


pen,  like  this  contrast  of  Michael’s  end,  to 
help  ns  in  doing  so  !  ” 

“  I  suppose,”  said  she,  a  that  it  is  right  to 
accept  of  consolations  and  helps ;  only  let  the 
consolations  be  in  the  superstructure,  and  let 
the  foundation  of  comfort  he  the  will  of  God.” 

“  I  think  you  have  it  in  the  right  order,” 
said  I ;  u  but  see  how  late  it  is.” 

After  prayers,  I  took  the  tortoise  shell  card- 
case  with  me  to  my  private  room.  I  stood 
where  I  did  just  a  year  ago,  the  evening  after 
the  funeral,  with  the  little  key  in  my  hand. 
1  thanked  God  that  I  had  such  a  child  in  such 
a  grave ;  and,  in  praying  for  Michael  and  his 
mother,  I  thought  what  a  privilege  it  was 
to  have  that  little  key  as  the  exponent  of  my 
affliction,  instead  of  such  memorials  of  her 
child  as  his  mother  would  carry  with  her  to 
the  grave.  In  the  morning  66 1  awaked,  and 

beheld,  and  my  sleep  was  sweet  unto  me.” 

9* 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

We  attended  the  funeral  of  a  little  child  in 
whom  my  wife  had  become  interested  during 
its  sickness.  It  was  a  noble  boy  of  three  years 
of  age,  who  died  of  croup.  Such  beautiful 
golden  hair,  flowing  over  its  face  and  into 
its  bosom  I  never  saw:  The  features  were 
not  affected  by  any  previous  disease ;  all  hut 
the  pale,  icy  look,  which  death  brings  with  it, 
made  you  feel  that  the  child  was  asleep. 

The  father  was  a  drover.  He  was  a  stout, 

coarse-looking  man,  with  a  very  large  head, 

which  he  leaned  back  against  the  ceding 

where  he  sat,  rolling  it  to  and  fro,  with  his 

mouth  open,  the  tears  running  down  with  no 

effort  to  conceal  them  or  wipe  them  away, 

and  every  now  and  then  he  would  beat  with 

his  head  against  the  wall.  The  poor  man 

(102) 


AGNES. 


103 


made  me  think  of  one  of  his  own  bullocks, 
drawn  by  a  rope  and  windlass  to  the  slaugh¬ 
ter.  His  wife  was  a  small,  delicate  woman,  a 
Christian;  but  he  was  wholly  neglectful  of 
religion  and  its  ordinances. 

I  sat  near  him  at  the  funeral,  and  wept 
with  him.  No  one  could  refrain.  Being  on 
intimate  terms,  I  asked  him  if  I  might  go  to 
the  grave  with  him. 

“  0  do,  sir,”  said  his  wife  ;  “  I  know  he  will 
be  so  glad  to  have  you.  I  try  to  comfort  Mr. 
Burke,  but  you  know  better  how  to  do  it.” 

“  Go  in  our  carriage,”  said  he,  “  will  you  ?  ” 

“Ask  your  wife  to  go  with  us,”  said  she; 
“  the  ride  will  do  her  good.” 

So  we  found  ourselves  with  them  on  our 
way  to  the  same  cemetery  where  Agnes  lay. 

“A more  beautiful  sight,”  said  I,  “probably 
was  never  beheld  than  your  dear  little  boy  in 
his  coffin.  It  makes  me  feel  that  the  words 
in  a  hymn  by  George  Whitfield,  whom  you 


104 


AGNES. 


have  heard  of,  the  great  preacher,  are  some¬ 
times  true : 

“  Ah,  lovely  appearance  of  death ! 

No  sight  upon  earth  is  so  fair ; 

Not  all  the  gay  pageants  that  breathe 
Can  with  a  dead  body  compare.” 

“Your  only  child,  too,”  said  I.  “Do  you 
think  that  there  is  any  God,  Mr.  Burke  ?  ” 

Mr.  B.  “  Well,  I  know  there  is.” 

Mr.  31.  “  You  know,  too,  that  he  did  this  ” 

Mr.  B.  “  Of  course.  He  does  everything.” 

Mr.  M.  “You  cannot  feel  perfectly  wil¬ 
ling,  I  know,  that  he  should  do  this;  you 
would  not  be  a  natural  father  if  you  did.” 

Mr.  B.  “  0,”  said  he,  taking  off  his  hat 
and  throwing  his  head  back,  convulsively,  sev¬ 
eral  times,  “  I  wish  I  was  dead ;  I  don’t  want 
to  live.  If  that  was  the  end  of  me,  like  an 
ox,  I  should  be  glad  to  be  killed.” 

Mr.  M.  “  My  dear  sir,  you  are  going  to  see 
the  day  when  you  will  say  that  the  death  of 
this  dear  little  boy  was  the  best  thing  that 


i 


AGNES. 


105 


ever  happened  to  you.  Only  be  patient  and 
try  to  be  quiet.” 

Mr.  B.  "How  can  I?”  Then  he  began 
to  cry  aloud. 

It  is  dreadful  to  hear  a  man  cry.  The  dis¬ 
tressing,  inarticulate,  choked  noises  which  he 
made,  set  his  wife  into  a  violent  weeping ;  but 
it  was  composing  to  listen  to  her  grief  com¬ 
pared  with  his. 

I  thought  of  an  expedient  to  divert  his 
mind.  "  Let  me  show  you  something  which 
will  interest  you,”  said  I. 

I  took  out  the  tortoise  shell  card-case,  and, 
waiting  some  little  time  to  get  his  attention 
fully,  I  said : 

"There  is  something  in  this  which  once 
made  me  weep  just  as  you  do,  Mr.  Burke. 
I  have  cried  over  it  like  a  child.  I  do  not 
wonder  at  your  crying,  and  I  could  hardly 
believe  once  that  I  could  see  it  now  without 
the  same  distress  which  I  felt  then,  and  which 
you  now  feel.” 


106 


AGNES. 


“Do  tell”  said  he;  "I’ve  no  idea  what  it 
can  be.” 

The  little  key  was  produced.  I  asked  him 
to  read  the  inscription  on  the  ribbon. 

Mr.  B.  “Well,  I  suppose  you  keep  her 
things  locked  up,  and  this  is  the  key  of  them.” 

Mr.  M.  “  No,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  the  key  to 
her.  She  is  locked  up,  and  this  did  it.  They 
are  going  to  give  you  just  such  a  key ;  I  saw 
the  undertaker  put  it  in  his  pocket  when  he 
left  the  house.” 

“  0,  how  can  you  keep  it?”  asked  his  wife  ; 
“I  should  think  it  would  distract  you  every 
time  you  see  it.” 

“  I  told  my  husband  the  same,”  said  my 
wife,  “  when  I  found  that  he  had  brought 
it  away  from  the  grave.  But  we  take  great 
pleasure  in  it  now.” 

Mrs.  B.  “  I  wish  you  would  take  ours  and 
keep  it  for  us.” 

Mr.  M.  “We  will  talk  about  it  by  and  by. 
But  only  look  out  here  ”  (for  we  were  within 
the  cemetery),  “and  see  how  many  little 


AGNES. 


107 


stones  there  are  over  little  graves.  Some 
parents  have  been  here  with  their  little  chil¬ 
dren  before  us,  Mr.  Burke” 

Mr.  B.  “  My  stars,  how  thick  they  are ! 
Wife,  just  look  out  here:  there  are  two, three, 
five  small  graves  in  one  lot.  Do  you  suppose 
they  all  belonged  to  the  same  people  ?  ” 

Mr.  3L  “  It  is  a  vale  of  tears,  Mr.  B.  If 
all  these  parents  who  have  lost  children  were 
here,  they  would  come  and  shake  hands  with 
you,  and  say,  ‘Mr.  Burke,  we  know  what  it  is; 
don’t  be  cast  down ;  hope  in  God.” 

Mr.  B.  “I  declare,  I  never  felt  that  I 
could  have  a  moment’s  comfort ;  but  I  do  pity 
all  these  people  so,  who  have  buried  so  many 
children!  Dare  say  some  of  them  were  as  in¬ 
teresting  as  mine.  But  0, 1  can’t  get  over  it. 
O,  George,  dear  little  fellow,  must  we  leave 
you  here  in  that  awful  grave  ?  0,  if  I  had  n’t 

been  born !  ” 

Mrs.  B.  “Don’t,  husband,  I  beg  of  you. 
Other  people  have  suffered  just  so,  and  got 
over  it.  Here  are  Mr.  M.  and  his  wife,  and 


108 


AGNES. 


I’m  sure  it  was  as  hard  to  lose  their  little 
Agnes.  See  how  they  feel  now.  It ’s  because 
they  are  Christians,  and  if  only  you  were  one 
I  should  n’t  feel  half  so  bad ;  for,”  said  she, 
“  there ’s  another  parting  with  George  that  ’ll 
be  worse  than  this.” 

Mr.  *B. — 66  Can’t  be  worse  than  this,  no  how; 
nothing  can  be  worse  than  this.” 

Mr.  31.  —  “  0,  my  dear  sir,  only  think  that 
you  must  die  and  appear  before  God.  Well, 
perhaps  little  George  comes  to  meet  you,  so 
glad  and  happy,  and  says:  ‘Father,  have  you 
really  come ?  Mother  is  here, — -we  ’re  waiting 
for  you.’  But  you  are  affrighted,  and  find  you 
have  no  Saviour,  and  must  go  away.  How 
would  you  bear  to  be  separated  from  George 
then  ?  Now,  you  hope  to  meet  him  again ; 
but  then  you  will  bid  him  farewell  for  ever, 
and  think  of  him  and  his  mother  in  heaven, 
and  you  shut  out.  Which  is  worse,  that,  or 
this  funeral  ?” 

He  put  his  face  on  his  hand,  rested  his 
elbow  in  his  other  hand,  looked  out  of  the 


AGNES. 


109 


carriage,  and  did  not  speak  for  a  few  minutes, 
till  finally  he  said : 

“  All  children  go  to  heaven,  I  suppose.” 

“  I  think  they  do,”  said  I.  “  But  they  owe 
it  to  Christ  if  they  do.  Should  they  grow  up 
here,  they  would  grow  up  sinners,  and  there¬ 
fore  they  need  to  be  born  of  the  Spirit,  in 
order  to  enter  heaven ;  and  this  they  receive, 
we  suppose,  through  Christ,  who  died  for 
them.  Did  you  ever  commune  Mrs.  Burke  ?  ” 

“  0  no,”  said  she,  covering  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief  and  weeping.  “Mr.  Burke  could 
never  be  persuaded,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  go 
alone.  He  used  to  say  he  felt  ashamed  to 
stand  up  before  so  many  people;  and,  besides, 
he  never  saw  any  great  use  in  it.” 

“  I  don’t  feel  so  now,”  said  Mr.  B. 

“  How  would  you  do  now  ?  ”  inquired  I. 

“  Why,”  replied  he,  “  I  would  please  my  wife. 
I  see  now  what  a  comfort  it  would  be  to  her, 
though  I  do  not  see  into  it.  I  wish  we  could 
do  it  at  the  grave,  if  I  was  good  enough.” 

I  fell  to  repeating  those  words:  “There  is 


10 


110 


AGNES. 


no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wis¬ 
dom,  in  the  grave  whither  thou  goest.” 

“  Perhaps,”  said  Mr.  B.,  “  he  would  n’t  have 
been  taken  away  from  us  if  I  had  offered  him 
up,  as  wife  called  it,  with  prayer  to  God.” 

“  Our  little  girl  who  died  was  offered  up”said 
my  wife.  “  That  makes  no  difference.” 

a  But  0,”  said  Mrs.  Burke,  “  what  a  com¬ 
fort  it  must  be  to  you  now!  I  had  some  spells 
of  crying  over  it.” 

“  0,  don’t  talk  about  that,  wife,”  said  Mr.  B.; 
66  you  know  I  would  n’t  do  the  same  now.” 

“  I  did  n’t  mean  to  reproach  you,  my  dear,” 
said  she,  “I  was  only  thinking  aloud.  You  are 
very  kind  to  me,  only  wTe  never  thought  just 
alike,  you  know.” 

I  said:  “I  cannot  but  hope  that  you  will; 
God  may  make  this  the  greatest  blessing  to 
both  of  you.” 

We  had  been  winding  slowly  up  hill  and 
down  hill,  stopping  to  let  other  carriages  pass 
on  their  return ;  arid  at  length  we  came  to  a 
remote  part  of  the  inclosure,  a  very  humble 


AGNES. 


Ill 


place  in  it,  where  Mr.  Burke,  at  the  request  of 
his  wife,  had,  the  day  before,  secured  a  very 
cheap  lot,  which  she  said  she  wished  to  feel 
was  her  own,  and  which  she  could  visit  and 
plant  with  flowers. 

“So  Jesus  slept,”  said  I,  as  we  stopped. 

“  ‘  God’s  dying  Son 

t* 

Pass’d  through  the  grave  and  bless’d  the  bed.’ 

“  This  is  like  the  Saviour’s  buryii:g-place 
‘  wherein  was  never  man  yet  laid.’  ” 

We  were  the  only  persons  present,  except 
the  two  men  in  charge  of  the  burial.  The 
parents  were  strangers  to  almost  every  one, 
having  recently  come  among  us. 

The  little  coffin  was  laid  upon  the  grass. 
The  undertaker  took  a  key  from  his  pocket, 
opened  the  lid,  and  let  it  lean  back. 

The  mother  kneeled,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
the  little  breast,  and  bent  over  her  child,  with 
expressions  of  love  and  grief  which  we  could 
not  but  join  to  increase.  The  father  was 
turning  away,  and  was  looking  down  into 
the  grave,  as  though  he  had  hurried  to  the 


112 


AGNES. 


very  brink  of  the  calamity,  and  was  desper¬ 
ately  in  haste  for  the  worst  to  come.  I  put 
my  arm  through  his.  “  This  will  be  a  pleas¬ 
ant  place/’  said  I,  “  on  the  morning  of  the 

resurrection,  to  little  George.” 

Mr.  B.  “  There ’s  room  enough  for  us  all 
three.  I  wish  I  was  to  be  laid  here  with  him.” 

Mr.M.  “You  are  not  ready  yet,  my  dear 
sir;  you  must  live,  and  be  a  good  man,  and 
do  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  prepare  to  meet 
wife  and  child  in  heaven.” 

Mr.  B.  “They  don’t  take  such  people  as 
me  there.” 

Mr.  M.  “  But  you  will  be  a  different  man 
yet.  ‘  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  ta¬ 
ken  away;’  try  to  say,  ‘and  blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord.’  ” 

Mr.  B.  “  It ’s  no  use  to  say  it,  if  you  don’t 
feel  it.” 

Mr.  M.  “  0,  dear  Mr.  Burke,  you  will  not 
quarrel  with  God  at  your  little  son’s  grave.  I 
doubt  not  George  is  in  heaven;  he  is  perfectly 
happy, —  happier  than  he  could  be  here.  No 


AGNES. 


113 


more  trouble  and  sorrow,  no  more  sin;  he  is 
safe,  and  Jesus  has  saved  him.  You  will  not 
leave  him  here.  It  is  no  more  to  him  than 
though  you  were  burying  that  little  Scotch- 
plaid  frock  and  trousers,  which  my  wife  says 
he  had  on  when  she  first  saw  him.  God 
has  done  the  very  best  thing  which  he  could 
for  you  and  George ;  you  will  not  find  fault 
with  Him.  Could  you  see  all  the  effects  of 
this  affliction,  you  might  feel  very  much 
ashamed  to  blame  God.  He  can  make  this 
thing  the  means  of  the  greatest  happiness  to 
you. 

“  Besides,”  said  I,  “  think  what  a  great  God 
he  is.  Look  over  this  cemetery,  and  think 
how  terrible  his  doings  are.  ‘  Behold,  he  tak- 
eth  away !  who  can  hinder  him  ?  Who  can 
say  unto  God,  What  doest  thou?’  But  ‘he 
maketh  sore  and  bindeth  up ;  he  woundeth 
and  his  hands  maketh  whole/  He  has  taken 
your  little  boy  from  you  to  heaven,  and  it 
almost  distracts  you.  See  how  God  can  afflict 
us.  0,  let  us  make  him  our  friend.  ‘Who 


10* 


114 


AGNES. 


hath  hardened  himself  against  Him  and  hath 
prospered  ?  ’  ” 

Mr .  B. — “If  them  men  will  wait  for  us,  I 
wish  yon  would  make  a  prayer” 

“  0,  be  as  long  as  you  please,  sir,”  said  the 
men,  respectfully,  while  they  withdrew  and 
leaned  over  a  rail-fence  near  by, 

I  told  him  that,  if  he  wished  for  it,  I  would 
offer  prayer.  “You  had  better  close  the  lid,” 
said  I,  “  while  we  pray ;  I  am  afraid  the  sight 
of  the  little  face  will  prevent  you  from  joining 
in  prayer  ” 

“  Please  don’t  shut  it  down  tight,”  said  the 
mother.  “  If  we  only  had  something  to  keep 
it  a  little  ways  open,”  said  she,  looking  about 
her. 

I  took  the  tortoise  shell  card-case  and  laid 
it  edgewise,  so  as  to  keep  the  lid  open  about 
three  inches.  I  had  it  in  my  heart  to  bless 
God  that  he  had  given  me  that  card-case  with 
its  contents,  it  seemed  such  a  privilege  to  use 
it  in  this  way.  IIow  little  did  I  ever  think 
that  it  would  come  to  such  a  scene,  in  which 


I 


AGNES.  1  j  5 

its  possessor  would  be  acting  the  part  of  com¬ 
forter  to  the  parents  of  a  deceased  only  child, 
at  that  child’s  grave,  in  the  same  cemetery 
from  which  I  first  carried  away  the  little  key. 

The  grass  was  short  and  dry,  the  ground 
was  safe  to  kneel  upon,  and  we  four  kneeled 
around  the  coffin. 

THE  PRAYER. 

“Will  God  look  down  upon  us,  as  we  come 
to  render  up  this  precious  dust  into  his  hands. 

“  ‘  I  was  dumb,  I  opened  not  my  mouth,  be¬ 
cause  thou  didst  it.’ 

“‘When  thou  with  rebukes  dost  correct 
man  for  his  iniquity,  thou  makest  his  beauty 
to  vanish  away  like  a  moth.  Surely  every 
man  at  his  best  state  is  altogether  vanity.’ 

“ 6  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken 
away ;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.’ 

“We  have  sinned  against  thee,  and  death  is 
by  sin,  and  so  death  passed  upon  all  men,  for 
that  all  have  sinned. 

“Thou  art  pleased  to  spare  children,  and 


116 


AGNES. 


make  them  a  comfort  to  their  parents ;  and 
again  thou  takest  away,  and  none  can  stay 
thy  hand,  or  say  unto  thee,  What  doest  thou  ?  ’ 

“We  know  not  wdiieh  is  best  for  us;  we  are 
short-sighted.  Thou  seest  the  end  from  the 
beginning,  and  hast  in  view  everything  relat> 
ing  to  each  case,  and  thy  decisions  are  wise 
and  good. 

“  It  is  not  for  us  to  call  in  question  thy  wis¬ 
dom  in  this  event.  We  could  have  wished  it 
otherwise ;  but  the  will  of  the  Lord  be  done. 

“  Thou  hast  taken  this  little  child  to  thyself, 
saved  it  by  Christ.  While  we  journey  on, 
amidst  darkness  and  tempests,  with  sins  and 
sorrows,  he  will  behold  thy  face,  grow  up  to 
be  like  Christ,  and  come  again  at  the  last  day 
to  this  grave,  and  receive  a  body  like  unto 
Christ’s  own  glorious  body.  May  we  be  com¬ 
forted  by  this,  and  strive  to  have  a  part  with 
him  in  that  resurrection. 

“  May  these  dear  parents  remember  that 
there  is  to  be  a  meeting  with  their  child,  and 
that  the  question  then  will  be,  whether  they 


4 


AGNES. 


117 


are  prepared  for  heaven.  Let  them  not  be 
separated  from  each  other  and  from  the  child. 
Make  its  death  the  means  of  winning  them 
both  to  God  and  heaven. 

“  Be  pleased  to  sustain  them  in  this  hour  of 
trial.  May  he  who  knelt  in  Gethsemane,  and 
prayed  that  the  cup  might  pass  from  him,  re¬ 
member  them..  May  they  remember  him  who 
then,  for  their  sakes,  said,  6  Nevertheless,  not 
as  I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt.’ 

“  May  they  remember  how  many  hearts 
have  bled  like  theirs;  that  God  has  not  sent 
upon  them  a  greater  trial  than  he  has  often 
prepared  for  others,  and  that  he  is  able  to 
turn  it  into  the  richest  of  blessings,  by  making 
them  love  and  serve  God. 

“We  now,  in  obedience  to  thy  most  holy 
will,  commit  this  dust  to  the  earth  as  it  was. 
We  cling  to  it,  we  would  keep  it,  but  thou 
hast  said,  c  Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou 
shalt  return.’  We  bow  before  thy  righteous 
mandate.  In  the  name  of  Jesus,  the  Re- 


118 


AGNES 


deemer,  forgive  the  sins  which  subject  us 
to  thy  just  displeasure  here  and  hereafter. 

“  When  they  go  back  to  their  desolate 
home,  comfort  their  hearts.  May  they  not 
feel  that  they  have  left  their  child  in  the 
grave,  but  direct  their  thoughts  to  heaven  * 
where  their  treasure  is,  there  may  their  hearts 
be  also. 

“And  now  help  us  to  take  the  last  look,  and 
go  through  the  parting,  with  our  eyes  fixed 
on  Christ,  whom  at  the  last  day  we  expect  to 
see  in  the  clouds  over  this  cemetery,  coming 
to  judge  the  living  and  the  dead.  May  this 
grave  not  be  a  place  of  mourning  to  us  then, 
but  of  rejoicing;  and  meanwhile  may  our  con¬ 
versation  be  in  heaven,  where  the  dear  child 
is,  and  where  Jesus  is,  and  where  we  shall  be 
if  we  are  followers  of  Jesus. 

“  And  may  the  God  of  peace,  who  brought 
again  from  the  dead  the  Lord  Jesus,  that  great 
Shepherd  of  the  sheep,  through  the  blood  of 
the  everlasting  covenant,  make  us  perfect  in 
every  good  work,  to  do  his  will,  working  in 


AGNES. 


119 


us  that  which  is  well  pleasing  in  his  sight, 
through  Jesus  Christ,  to  whom  be  glory  for 
ever.  Amen.” 

We  took  up  the  body  and  buried  it.  We 
saw  the  little  mound  made  into  shape ;  the 
parents  stood  in  silence  over  it,  weeping,  when 
a  sudden  clap  of  thunder,  from  a  cloud  con¬ 
cealed  by  the  hill  near  us,  gave  a  new  direc¬ 
tion  to  their  thoughts,  and  led  us  to  hasten 
into  the  carriage  from  the  storm. 

Before  we  left  the  cemetery,  the  rain  came 
down,  and  the  thunder  and  lightning  were 
terrific. 

“  I  enjoy  this,”  said  I. 

“  You  do?”  said  Mrs.  B. ;  “I  am  always 
afraid  of  being  struck ;  but  to-day  I  have  no 
fear” 

“  I  wish  we  were  safe  at  home,”  said  Mr.  B. 

“  I  love  to  see  and  hear  God  in  his  works,” 
said  I : 

“This  awful  God  is  ours, 

Our  Father  and  our  Friend.’  ” 


120 


AGNES. 


“  How  safe  we  are,  Mr.  B.,  with  such  a  God 
on  our  side.” 

Mr.  B.  “0,  Mr.  M.,  I  would  give  all  the 
world  to  feel  as  you  do  about  God.” 

Mr.  M.  “  To  lose  a  dear  child,  and  then 
to  feel  rightly  about  it  toward  God,  is  among 
the  surest  means  to  make  you  love  God. 
There  is  probably  nothing  that  brings  God 
and  us  nearer  together  than  to  lose  a  child, 
and  now  you  will  have  the  opportunity  to 
show  God  what  your  feelings  are  toward  him. 
Would  you  really  love  and  serve  God  if  you 
could?” 

Mr.  B.  “That  I  would;  for  I  begin  to 
feel  that  I  must  have  God  on  my  side  if  I 
would  be  well  off.” 

Mr.  M.  “  There  is  one  thing  which  I 
would  give  more  to  have  you  do  than  any¬ 
thing  else.” 

Mr.  B.  “  I  ’ll  do  anything  for  you,  sir, 
you ’ve  been  so  kind  to  us.” 

Mr.  M.  “  But  0,  you  do  not  know  what 


AGNES. 


121 


it  is.  You  will,  I  fear,  refuse,  and  say  you 
cannot  do  it ;  but  you  can  if  you  will.” 

Mr.  B.  "  Then  I  ’ll  die  but  what  I  ’ll  do  it!” 
bringing  his  fist  down  upon  his  knee.  "  I  al¬ 
ways  do  what  I  set  out  for.” 

"  Tell  us  what  it  is,”  said  his  wife. 

"  It  is  something,”  said  I,  "which  will  please 
Mrs.  B.  more  than  anything  you  can  do.” 

"  Set  up  prayers,”  said  she. 

"Yes,”  I  replied ;  "how  came  you  to  guess 
it?” 

"I’ve  prayed  for  it  ever  since  vre  kept 
house,”  said  she.  "Husband,  did  you  hear?” 

"  Mr.  B.,”  said  I,  "  after  tea,  take  your  Bible 
and  read  the  twenty-third  Psalm,  and  then 
kneel  down  with  your  wife,  and  pray  to 
God.” 

He  turned  pale  and  red  alternately ;  a 
mighty  struggle  arose  within  him ;  he  pulled 
up  the  end  of  his  frock-coat  and  gathered  it 
into  inch  pieces,  pressing  them  all  together, 
then  pulling  the  cloth  out  straight,  entirely 
lost  in  thought,  till  at  last  he  said  : 


11 


122 


AGNES. 


“Well,  wife,  I  ’ll  do  it.  I  had  my  way  about 
the  baptism  ;  now  you  shall  have  yours.  If 
God  will  help  me,  I ’ll  say  something;  but  I 
don’t  know  how  to  pray.” 

“  W e  know  not  what  to  pray  for  as  we 
ought,”  said  I;  “ ‘but  the  Spirit  itself  maketh 
intercession  for  us  with  groanings  which  cannot 
be  uttered.’  The  more  you  have  of  them,  Mr. 
R,  the  more  acceptably  you  will  pray.  God 
will  understand  it;  for  he  that  searcheth  the 
hearts  knoweth  what  is  the  mind  of  the  Spirit, 
oecause  he  maketh  intercession  for  the  saints 
according  to  the  will  of  Gock” 

Mr.  B.  “  Come  over  and  pray  with  us,  Mr. 
M.,  this  evening,  and  help  me,  and  we  ’ll  see 
what  wre  can  do.” 

After  tea,  I  went  in  and  read  the  Bible,  and 
endeavored  to  lead  the  afflicted  father  to  the 
Saviour  of  sinners.  I  then  proposed  to  lead 
in  prayer,  and  he  engaged  to  follow.  I  prayed 
much  of  the  time,  as  in  his  name,  making  sim¬ 
ple  confessions  and  petitions.  He  followed, 
in  broken  sentences  and  evidently  with  a  bro- 


AGNES. 


123 


ken  heart  I  felt  that  the  crisis  was  past ; 
that  he  had  submitted  himself  to  God ;  that, 
as  a  lost  and  perishing  sinner,  he  had  accepted 
J esus  Christ  as  his  atoning  sacrifice ;  and  his 
feclirgs  with  regard  to  the  death  of  his  child 
were  those  of  submission,  though  grief  was 
yet  swelling  within  him  in  great  billows ;  for 
the  sea  had  not  gone  down,  though  the  moon 
and  stars  appeared.  He  became  a  consistent 
Christian,  joined  the  church,  took  a  seat  in 
the  choir,  he  having  a  splendid  baritone  voice  ; 
and  sometimes,  when  I  have  listened,  I  could 
not  be  mistaken  in  the  feeling  that  the  sub¬ 
duing  influence  of  affliction  had  raised  him  in 
the  scale  of  being,  and  had  opened  suscepti¬ 
bilities  in  him  which  made  him  tenfold  more 
of  a  man  than  he  was  before,  besides  enduing 
him,  through  grace,  with  that  which  made  him 
a  new  creature,  and  had  changed  his  pros¬ 
pects  for  eternity. 

Several  months  after  that,  he  called,  with 
his  wife,  at  my  house,  very  respectably 
dressed,  being  now  the  owner  of  a  provis- 


ion  stall  in  a  large  market,  and  in  protit* 
able  business.  His  countenance  was  changed. 
It  was  refined,  urbane,  full  of  feeling ;  he  was 
gentle  and  affectionate ;  he  was  a  happy  man. 

“  Do  you  know,”  said  he,  “  what  became  of 
that  key  of  ours  the  day  we  buried  our  little 
boy?  Wife  thinks  that  it  was  left  in  the  lock.” 

“  I  brought  it  away  with  me,”  said  I,  66  and 
have  kept  it  safely.  I  thought  that  it  would 
only  harrow  your  feelings  for  me  to  give  it  to 
you  there,  so  long  as  you  had  not  spoken 
about  it,  and  did  not  think  to  take  it  with 
you” 

I  brought  it  to  him  in  a  little  box,  which  I 
had  caused  to  be  turned  from  a  piece  of  an 
oak  limb  which  had  fallen  from  a  tree  in  my 
lot  in  the  cemetery,  during  a  high  wind.  I 
had  written  the  name  of  the  child,  with  the 
dates  of  its  birth,  death,  and  burial,  and  its 
place  of  burial,  on  the  ribbon.  They  looked 
at  it  together,  while  different  emotions  chased 
one  another  over  their  faces.  He  gave  it 


AGNES. 


125 


to  his  wife,  who  wrapped  it  in  her  handker¬ 
chief  and  placed  it  in  her  reticule,  saying  that 
she  believed  the  best  thing  that  God  had  ever 
done  for  her  and  her  husband,  was  to  make 
them  the  owners  of  that  key. 

t  T* 

A  V 


CHAPTER  IX. 


There  are  some  tilings  which  God  does  to 
us,  perhaps,  with  the  simple  object  of  making 
-■s  feel  that  he  is  God.  Then  a  controversy 
arises  between  us  and  him,  the  issue  of  which 
is  fraught  with  permanent  consequences  for 
good  or  evil  in  our  characters  and  condition. 
If  some  in  affliction  could  express  all  that 
they  think  and  feel,  they  would  tell  us  that 
they  do  not  like  the  character  and  the  doings 
of  the  Almighty,  as  they  understand  them. 
They  would  say  :  W e  cannot  help  this.  Men 
make  impressions  on  our  minds  according  to 
their  character  and  conduct.  These  impres¬ 
sions  are  involuntary.  We  do  not  feel  com¬ 
placency  in  the  character  of  the  Almighty,  as 
we  view  it. 

Such  was  the  sad,  the  fearful  state  of  mind 

in  an  Infidel,  as  I  was  talking  with  him  about 

(126) 


AGNES. 


127 


the  loss  of  his  three  children,  who  died  within 
a  year  and  a  half  of  each  other.  His  second 
child,  a  daughter  of  seventeen,  was  drowned 
in  a  pleasure  party ;  his  oldest  child,  a  son  of 
nineteen,  fell  a  victim  to  the  cholera  in  a 
Western  city ;  and  now  his  infant  and  his  wife 
had  just  descended  into  one  grave.  The 
child,  a  wreek  old,  lay  on  its  mother’s  arm 
in  the  coffin.  Several  hundreds  of  people 
had  been  to  view  the  sight;  and  many  a 
spectator  grew  faint  as  he  felt  the  mighty 
hand  of  God  in  that  dwelling,  and  said,  “What 
desolations  He  hath  made  in  the  earth  !  ” 

It  was  toward  sunset  on  Sabbath  evening. 
I  had  been  on  an  errand  for  a  minister,  re¬ 
specting  the  supply  of  his  pulpit  for  the  even 
ing  service,  and  was  coming  through  one  of 
the  parks  on  my  way  home,  when  I  met  this 
bereaved  husband  and  father  strolling  list¬ 
lessly  along,  looking  dejected  and  pale ;  and, 

when  lie  saw  me,  he  lifted  his  eyes  without 
raising  his  head. 

“Which  way  are  you  walking?”  I  said  to  him. 


128 


AGNES. 


He  had  formerly  visited  in  my  father’s  family, 
and  we  were  on  pleasant  terms. 

“  0”  said  he,  “  nowhere;  I  came  out  to  get 
away  from  myself,  and  from  my  tomb  of  a 
house.  Sundays  are  awful  things  to  a  man 
like  me.” 

“Well,  now,”  said  I,  “Mr.  Winn,  I  was 
praying  for  you  last  evening,  if  you  will  ex¬ 
cuse  me  for  speaking  of  it ;  for  never  in  my 
life  did  I  feel  so  toward  a  human  being  as  I 
have  felt  toward  you.  Some  lines  of  Crabbe 
have  occurred  to  me  in  connection  with  your 
wife’s  untimely  death : 

“  ‘Then  died  lamented,  in  the  strength  of  life, 

A  valued  mother  and  a  faithful  wife ;  — 

Xot  when  the  ills  of  age,  its  pains,  its  care, 

The  drooping  spirit  for  its  fate  prepare, 

But  all  her  ties  the  strong  invader  broke 

In  all  their  strength,  by  one  tremendous  stroke.”  * 

Taking  out  a  little  Bible  which  I  always 
carry  with  me,  I  said : 

u  In  thinking  of  you,  last  evening,  I  turned 

*  The  Sudden  Death  and  Funeral.  —  Crabbe’ s  T  les. 


AGNES. 


129 


and  read  these  words  of  Jeremiah  in  his  Lam¬ 
entations,,  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  you  could 
so  appropriately  use  : 

“  ‘  I  am  the  man  that  hath  seen  affliction  by 
the  rod  of  his  wrath. 

“ 6  He  hath  led  me  and  brought  me  into 
darkness,  but  not  into  light. 

“ 6  Surely  against  me  is  he  turned  ;  he  turn- 
eth  his  hand  against  me  all  the  day. 

“  ‘  My  flesh  and  my  skin  hatli  he  made  old  ; 
he  hath  broken  my  bones. 

“  ‘  He  hath  budded  against  me,  and  com¬ 
passed  me  with  gall  and  travad. 

“ ‘  He  hath  hedged  me  about,  that  I  cannot 
get  out ;  he  hath  made  my  chain  heavy. 

“  ‘  He  was  unto  me  as  a  bear  lying  in  wait ; 
and  as  a  lion  in  secret  places. 

“ 6  He  hath  turned  aside  my  ways  and  pulled 
me  in  pieces ;  he  hath  made  me  desolate. 

(UHe  hath  bent  his  bow  and  set  me  as  a 
mark  for  the  arrow. 

“  c  He  hath  caused  the  arrows  of  his  quiver 
to  enter  into  my  reins. 


130 


AGNES. 


“‘He  hath  filled  me  with  bitterness;  he 
hath  made  me  drunken  with  wormwood. 

“‘He  hath  also  broken  my  teeth  with 
gravel  stones;  he  hath  covered  me  with 
ashes. 

“  ‘  And  thou  hast  removed  my  soul  far  off 
from  peace  ;  I  forgat  prosperity/ 

“  You  could  hardly  express  your  trouble  in 
so  many  and  such  various  terms,  Mr.  W. 
They  all  apply  to  you;  and  what  a  book 
the  Bible  is,  containing  everything  suitable  to 
each  case  !  ” 

He  made  no  remark,  and  I  added  : 

“  Job,  too,  was  brought  to  my  mind  by  your  N 
bereavements.  All  his  children  were  cut  off.” 

“  Yes,  but  his  wife  was  left.  She  was  not 
much,  I  am  inclined  to  think;  yet  he  had 
somebody  to  talk  to,  and  to  be  with  him.  I 
wander  all  over  my  house,  and  there  is  not 
one  place  where  I  feel  that  I  can  sit  down. 
It  is  haunted  by  some  association,  or  it  seems 
so  lonely  that  I  change  the  place  but  keep 
the  pain.  0,  Mr.  M.,  if  1  had  the  manage^ 


AGNES. 


131 


ment  of  affairs,  I  would  not  excruciate  men  in 
this  way.” 

“He  doth  not  afflict  willingly,  nor  grieve 
the  children  of  men,”  said  I. 

“Willingly  or  not,”  said  he,  “  it  is  done;  and 
how  can  I  think  well  of  one  who  does  this  ? 
Now,  I  am  a  rational  creature ;  I  have  sense 
and  reason ;  I  am  not  a  machine  or  beast.  I 
must  judge  of  things  as  they  are,  and  I  cannot 
bow  my  affections  to  a  being  whom  I  cannot 
love.  I  suppose  that  I  am  worse  than  people 
in  general  in  this  thing,  but  I  cannot  help  it, 
my  feelings  are  involuntary  ” 

“  I  do  not  think  that  you  are  worse  than 
people  in  general,  by  any  means,”  said  I,  “  in 
having  those  feelings.  Thousands  have  them 
who  do  not  express  them  as  you  do.” 

“  Now,”  said  he,  “  that  is  the  only  decent 
thing  which  has  been  said  to  me  for  a  fort¬ 
night  past.  My  relations  are  all  Presbyte¬ 
rians,  church-going  people,  and  they  think  me 
a  regular  blasphemer.” 

“  But,”  said  I,  “  it  is  a  poor  compliment  to 


132 


A  GNES. 


say  that  you  are  no  worse  than  thousands  who 
like  you,  have  a  carnal  mind  which  is  enmity 
against  God ;  for  it  is  not  subject  to  his  law; 
neither  indeed  can  be  ” 

"  That  is  rather  plain  language,”  said  he. 
"You  certainly  are  not  the  man  to  be  of¬ 
fended  at  the  truth,  Mr.  W.,  after  uttering 
yourself  as  plainly  as  you  have  to  me  re¬ 
specting  the  Most  High  !  ” 

"Did  I  say,”  said  he,  "that  I  was  an  enemy 
to  God  ?  I  take  it,  that  I  may  feel  repug¬ 
nance  to  a  character,  and  yet  not  be  an  enemy 
to  the  man  who  bears  it  ” 

I  replied  :  "  If  a  man  thoroughly  dislikes  his 
wife,  with  a  settled  aversion,  is  not  his  mind 
enmity  to  her?  Yet  you  would  not  call  him 
her  enemy.  But  suppose  a  man  to  be  utterly 
opposed  to  the  measures  of  a  king,  and  that  he 
refuses  to  submit  to  him,  and  neglects  every 
duty  toward  the  government,  talks  to  others 
against  it,  and  his  actions  are  in  opposition  to 
it;  is  he  not  justly  called  an  enemy  of  the  king? 


AGNES. 


133 


Surely  he  would  be  treated  as  such,  under 
whatever  name  he  might  be  arraigned” 

“  He  might  not  be  a  personal  enemy  to  the 
king,”  said  he. 

“  As  to  all  purposes  of  loyalty  he  is  a  rebel,” 
I  replied.  “How  remarkable  it  is  that  Christ 
sums  up  the  wdiole  moral  law  in  this  :  ‘  Thou 
shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God,  and  thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbor.’  God  makes  religion,  that 
is,  our  duty,  to  consist  in,  and  flow  from,  love. 
Would  it  have  satisfied  you  had  that  dear  son 
of  yours  written  to  you,  saying,  ‘  Father,  I  am 
not  your  enemy,  but  I  feel  an  utter  repug- 
nance  to  you  ?  I  do  not,  and  I  cannot,  love 
you.’  What  if  you  should  have  said  to  your 
wife,  c  Let  us  separate ;  I  am  not  your  enemy, 
but  I  totally  disapprove  of  your  principles 
and  conduct,  and  take  no  pleasure  in  you.’ 
All  this  you  feel  toward  God.” 

“  W ell,  I  know  I  do,”  said  he ;  “  and  a  man 
may  be  perfectly  justified  in  feeling  so  toward 
his  wife,  and  a  son  toward  his  father.” 

“Justified,”  said  I,  “if  the  characters  of  the 
12 


134 


A  G  X  E  S . 


father  and  the  wife  are  really  such  as  these 
alienated  minds  assert.  Allow  that,  in  the 
judgment  of  competent  people  without  num¬ 
ber,  they  are,  on  the  contrary,  eminently 
lovely  and  good,  what  would  that  prove  as 
to  the  son  and  the  husband  ?  ” 

“  It  would  prove  that  men  differ  honestly 
about  the  same  things,”  said  he. 

I  replied :  “If  a  little  child  at  table  says, 
‘Mother,  my  milk  is  sour/  and  the  mother 
tastes  it  and  finds  it  perfectly  sweet;  and,  the 
child  still  insisting  that  it  is  sour,  the  mother 
hands  it  to  two  or  three  grown  people,  and 
they  also  say  it  is  perfectly  sweet,  what 
then  ?  ” 

“Why,”  said  he,  laughing,  “  either  the  child’s 
taste  is  out  of  order,  or  its  temper.” 

“  Mr.  Winn,”  said  I,  taking  the  tortoise  shell 
card-case  out  of  my  pocket  and  drawing  forth 
the  little  key,  “  there  is  the  key  of  my  little 
daughter’s  coffin,  as  lovely  a  child  as  ever  drew 
the  breath  of  life.  My  child !  my  child !  God 
took  her  away  from  me.  Your  children  and 


AGNES. 


135 


your  wife  were  your  all.  Agnes  and  my  wife 
were  my  joy ;  the  child  is  dead,  and  my  wife  is 
hastening  after  her.  The  bitter  sorrow  awaits 
me  which  you  have  drunk  to  the  full.  How 
does  this  make  me  feel  toward  God  ?  ” 

“I  should  like  to  hear,”  said  he,  “interrupt¬ 
ing  me.” 

“Mr.  Winn,”  said  I,  “it  makes  me  say, 
‘Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  thee  ?  and  there 
is  none  upon  earth  that  I  desire  besides  thee. 
My  flesh  and  my  heart  faileth,  but  God  is  the 
strength  of  my  heart  and  my  portion  for  ever.’  ” 
“  I  presume  you  do  not  mean,  by  all  that, 
that  you  love  him  better  than  before  ?  ” 
“Better  than  before?”  said I.  “There  is  no 
comparison  that  does  justice  to  the  case;  I 
love  him,  I  worship  him,  I  serve  him,  so  far  as 
my  desires  are  concerned,  as  I  never  did. 
6  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  him.’  ” 
“  It  is  a  mystery  to  me,”  said  he,  “  and  I 
suppose  it  is  to  you.  It  must  be  what  you 
call  sovereignty,  or  election, — something  over 
which  you  have  no  control.” 


136  AGNES. 

“Why”  said  I,  “  you  said  just  now,  speak' 
ing  of  yourself,  ‘  I  am  a  rational  creature  *  I 
have  sense  and  reason ;  I  am  not  a  machine 
nor  a  beast/  Will  you  allow  me  to  be  the 
same  in  these  respects  as  yourself?  ” 

“  Then,”  said  he,  “  how  does  it  happen  that 
you  and  I  view  the  same  things  in  such  a 
totally  different  light  ?  ” 

“  Neither  you  nor  I,  nor  any  other  man,” 
said  I,  “  is  the  standard  of  truth.  There  is  a 
common  standard,  —  the  Word  of  God” 

66 1  wish  I  had  more  confidence  in  it,”  said 
ne,  interrupting  me. 

“IIow  improbable  it  is,  Mr.  W.,”  said  I, 
a  that  a  benevolent  God  would  leave  his  crea¬ 
tures  without  some  common  standard  of  truth, 
which  would  be  the  arbiter  among  their  con¬ 
trary  judgments  and  moral  sentiments.  This 
argument  in  favor  of  a  divine  revelation  con¬ 
vinces  me  that  the  Bible  is  the  Word  of  God. 
He  who  gave  us  the  magnetic  needle,  he  who 
has  made  the  human  hand,  and  the  eye,  with 
such  wise  and  benevolent  adaptedness  to  our 


AGNES. 


137 


wants,  would  not,  he  could  not,  fail  to  supply  us 
with  such  a  means  of  instruction  and  comfort 
as  a  revelation  from  himself.  He  knew  that 
the  greatest  desire  of  his  creatures  would  be, 
to  have  authentic  information  of  the  character 
and  the  wishes  of  the  Being  who  holds  them 
at  his  will,  and  of  the  way  to  please  him,  — 
to  say  nothing  of  other  things,  which  would 
make  a  revelation  indispensable.  There  must 
be  such  a  revelation,  Mr.  W.  Did  not  the 
astronomers,  witnessing  the  perturbations  of 
Uranus,  say,  ‘  There  must  be  a  planet  beyond 
him,  to  account  for  these  disturbances 9  ?  Did 
they  not  calculate  where  the  undiscovered 
world  must  be,  and  settle  its  distances,  and 
weight,  and  orbit,  by  rules  which  required  all 
which  they  afterward  discovered  ?  I  say  that 
such  a  system  as  that  under  which  men  live, 
requires  that  there  be  a  divine  revelation,  if 
there  be  a  benevolent  God.” 

“  0,”  said  he,  66  you  go  too  fast  and  too  far. 
I  have  not  settled  the  point  that  there  is  such 
a  benevolent  Being.” 


133 


AGNES . 


“My  dear  friend,”  said  I,  “you  cannot 
mean  that  your  sufferings  counterbalance  all 
those  proofs  which  Dr.  Paley,  for  example,  in 
his  Natural  Theology,  quotes  from  every  side 
to  show  the  goodness  of  God  ?  If  you  are  an 
exception  to  the  general  law  of  goodness,  let 
it  be  so,  and  account  for  it  in  a  rational  way  ; 
do  not  impugn  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of 
God  in  the  whole  structural  economy  of  ani¬ 
mate  and  inanimate  things.” 

“  How  shall  I  account  for  it,  then,  that  I  am 
an  exception  ?  ”  said  he. 

“I  deny  that  you  are,”  said  I.  “You  could 
not  count  up  the  number  of  those  who  have 
suffered  as  much  as  you.  That  peculiar  trials 
should  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  is  to  be 
explained  hereafter,  and  not  perhaps  in  this 
life ;  and  an  old  writer  says,  c  Quarrel  not  with 
God’s  unfinished  providences.’  You  have  no 
doubt  that  your  wife  and  little  child  have 
gone  to  heaven.” 

He  made  no  reply. 

“  Your  other  daughter,  too,  I  learn,  was  a 


A  G  N  E  S . 


139 


Christian.  Suppose  your  son,  also,  to  have 
been  prepared  to  die  ;  and  suppose,  now,  that 
you  could  look  in  upon  your  whole  family  in 
heaven,  would  you  feel  that  some  great  calam¬ 
ity  had  happened  to  them  ?  Might  not  some 
there  say,  What  family  is  this?  Whom  has 
God  loved  and  honored  so,  that  he  has  trans¬ 
ferred  them  together  here  ?  There  they  are, 
a  constellation  of  four  stars  in  the  firmament 
of  heaven,  known  by  some  name,  perhaps, 
and  as  beautiful  to  spectators  as  the  Southern 
Cross,  or  Pleiades,  with  a  vacant  place  in  their 
arrangement  waiting  for  you.” 

“  That  makes  my  present  loss  and  pain  no 
less,”  said  he. 

“  But,”  said  I,  “  seventy  years  are  a  small 
part  of  our  whole  existence.  God  may  have 
judged  that  the  very  best  way  to  secure  your 
usefulness  here,  and  your  eternal  happiness, 
wras  to  take  all  your  family  to  heaven.  There 
you  may  see  that  the  greatest  kindness  God 
ever  bestowed  upon  you  was  to  bereave  you, 
and  thus  to  keep  you  from  having  your  por- 


140 


AGNES, 


tion  in  this  life.  He  broke  up  your  nest,  and 
took  you  on  his  wings,  and  bore  you  abroad. 
He  is  now  seeking  to  win  your  confidence  and 
affection,  that  he  may  save  you.  Are  you 
aware,  my  dear  sir,  that  God  loves  you  ?  ” 

“  He  cannot  be  what  you  say  he  is,  if  he 
can  love  me,”  said  Mr.  W. 

“  Because  He  is  what  he  is,  He  loves  you 
with  infinite  compassion;  but  not  of  course 
with  complacency.  His  feelings  towards  you 
are  those  of  infinite  benevolence.  You  wrill 
be  as  welcome  to  his  favor  and  to  eternal 
happiness  as  any  man.  I  am  persuaded  that 
the  peculiarity  of  your  afflictions  is  a  proof  of 
peculiar  regard  for  you ;  God  is  making  pecu¬ 
liar  efforts  to  save  you.  Do  not  frustrate  them. 
These  clouds  may  be  full  of  mercy.  How 
much  your  family  in  heaven  must  love  you ! 
How  must  that  dear  wife  long  to  show  you 
the  little  babe,  which,  under  her  tuition  in 
heaven,  has  become  perfect  in  beauty!  0,  can 
you  bear  to  think  of  being  separated  from 
them  forever,  Mr.  Yvh?” 


AGNES. 


141 


“  I  don’t  see  but  I  must/’  said  he,  “if  all  }’ou 
say  is  true.” 

“No  one  but  }’ourself  will  be  to  blame  if 
}tou  are  not  saved/’  I  replied.  “God  has  used 
the  severest  method  to  detach  you  from  earth. 
He  now  admonishes  you,  by  what  you  have 
suffered,  that  future  and  endless  separation 
will  be  intolerable.  Speaking  to  the  Israel¬ 
ites,  he  tells  them  of  their  sufferings  when 
they  shall  be  separated  from  their  children  by 
enemies  in  war.  “  Thy  sons  and  thy  daugh¬ 
ters  shall  be  given  unto  another  people,  and 
thine  eyes  shall  look  and  fail  with  longing  for 
them  all  the  day  long.”  How  insupportable 
home-sickness  is  to  a  husband  and  father  in  a 
foreign  land,  thinking  that  the  ocean  lies 
between  him  and  his  home.  What  weari¬ 
ness  and  restlessness  }’ou  feel  now,  as  you  miss 
your  wife  and  children.  The  world  is  a  sepuf 
chre  to  you.  What  would  you  do  hereafter, 
to  find  that  the}’  are  together  in  heaven,  and 
}tou  banished  from  them  ?  ” 

“Well,  I  wish  that  I  had  not  been  born,” 


142 


AGNES. 


said  he ;  cc  and,  if  there  were  such  a  thing  as 
annihilation,  I  would  soon  find  it.” 

“  Better  be  a  happy  spirit  in  heaven  through 
eternity,  as  you  may  be,”  said  I.  “  The  time 
will  come  when  you  will  look  on  all  these 
troubles  with  a  peaceful  mind.  I  love  to  say 
those  words  to  myself:  ‘Thou  which  hast 
showed  me  great  and  sore  troubles,  shalt 
quicken  me  again,  and  bring  me  up  again 
from  the  depths  of  the  earth.  Thou  shalt 
increase  my  greatness,  and  comfort  me  on 
every  side.’  I  shall  not  wonder  if  I  see  you 
settled  again,  in  a  happy  home,  your  feelings 
mellowed  and  chastened  by  affliction,  and 
you  in  possession  of  rich  joys,  and  exerting 
great  influence  by  reason  of  your  experience. 
God  ‘maketh  sore  and  bindeth  up  •  he  wound- 
eth  ’  and  his  hands  make  whole.  He  shall 
deliver  £hee  in  six  troubles;  yea,  in  seven 
there  shall  no  evil  touch  thee.’  ” 

He  began  to  wipe  his  eyes  and  to  smile, 
as  he  said :  “  Hope  is  a  blessed  medicine,  after 
all ;  Pandora  shut  down  the  lid  of  her  box  in 


A  GNE  S. 


143 


good  time  when  she  kept  Hope  behind,  after 
she  had  let  out  all  our  plagues  .” 

“  That  is  a  good  fable/’  said  I ;  “  but  there 
is  a  better  Scripture  for  you:  ‘Now  the  God 
of  hope  fill  you  with  all  joy  and  peace  in 
believing,  that  ye  may  abound  in  hope  through 
the  power  of  the  Holy  Ghost/  What  a  name 
that  is,  Mr.  W., —  ‘the  God  of  hope/  ” 

“  I  am  glad  I  met  you,”  said  he.  “  I  begin 
to  think  that  I  have  been  very  foolish. 
There ’s  no  use  in  being;  so  stubborn.  1 
have  stood  in  my  own  light.  If  I  had  done 
better,  I  might  have  escaped  these  troubles.” 

“  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  bemoaning  your¬ 
self,”  said  I.  “  Now  turn  to  God,  my  dear  sir, 
humble  yourself  to  him;  for  he  is  God  and 
you  but  dust.  ‘  Humble  yourselves,  therefore, 
under  the  mighty  hand  of  God,  that  He  may 
exalt  you  in  due  time/  ” 

■‘  Whether  he  exalts  me  or  not,”  said  he,  in 
a  somewhat  excited  way,  which  startled  me, 
“  you  have  made  me  feel  that  I  have  a  duty 
to  perform.  Walk  in,”  said  he,  as  we  came 


144 


AGNES. 


to  his  door.  He  rang  the  bell.  A  middle- 
aged  woman  opened  the  door  a  little  ways, 
and  peeped  out,  knowing  that  she  was  alone 
in  the  house,  and  feeling  suspicious  of  every 
one  who  came  to  it. 

66 1  want  you  to  go  with  me,”  said  he,  “  to 
the  spot  where  my  wife  died.” 

The  chamber  was  a  little  darkened,  the 
blinds  being  partly  shut.  The  full  bed,  with  its 
snowy  white  drapery,  had  an  affluent  look. 
The  door  of  a  cedar-wood  closet  stood  open, 
and  there  hung  a  lady’s  dresses,  making  me 
start  at  the  thought  of  my  intrusion  into  such 
a  sanctuary;  while  I  remembered,  too,  what 
mournful  relics  they  were  to  this  bereaved 
man.  A  little  feature  in  a  sad  scene  fre¬ 
quently  occupies  the  chief  place  in  our 
thoughts,  and  here  my  eye  was  caught  by 
the  sleeve  of  a  dress  which  hung  out,  with  the 
bend  in  it  made  by  the  wearer’s  arm !  How 
sick  at  heart  did  I  feel ;  and  what  I  should 
to  my  friend  in  my  frame  of  mind,  I 


145 


AGNES 

did  not  know,  when  I  was  surprised  by  the 
sound  of  his  voice  in  prayer. 

I  looked  round,  and  he  was  at  the  farther 
side  of  the  bed,  kneeling,  and  lifting  up  his 
folded  hands  upon  the  white  coverlid.  I  shall 

• 

never  forget  his  wrords.  I  stole  round  and 
knelt  at  some  distance  from  him,  while  he  said  : 

“  0  God,  it  is  all  right.  I  am  a  sinner.  I 
am  glad  that  there  is  One  who  is  mightier 
than  I  am,  and  has  conquered  me,  a  rebel, 
and  brought  me  to  Ins  feet.  0,  how  much  it 
took  to  bring  me  down.  It  is  all  right;  I 
yield ;  do  with  me  what  seems  good.  For 
the  blessed  Jesus’  sake,  have  mercy  on  a  poor, 
desolate,  lost,  miserable  sinner.  Please  do  not 
let  me  suffer  so  forever.  Save  me  from 
myself.  0,  my  wife !  my  wife !  my  chil¬ 
dren  !  I  never  prayed  with  them.  I  might 
have  ruined  them  if  they  had  lived.  God! 
thou  hast  snatched  them  away  from  their 
wicked  father ;  and  now,  0,  if  God  means 
to  save  the  father  too  —  what  a  God  he  must 
be,  and  —  ” 


13 


146 


AGNES. 


Here  he  fell  into  incontrollable  sobbing,  and 
buried  bis  face  in  the  side  of  the  downy  bed. 

After  a  while  I  ventured  to  follow  him  in 
prayer,  commending  him  to  the  infinite  Friend 
and  Saviour  of  sinners,  leading  him  in  my 
supplications  to  the  Lamb  of  God  which  tak- 
eth  away  the  sin  of  the  world. 

I  shall  always  believe  that,  in  that  moment, 
he  was  reconciled  to  God  through  the  death 
of  his  Son.  On  that  spot,  where  his  wife 
ascended  to  glory,  he  found  eternal  life,  so 
that  I  said  with  myself,  “Glow  dreadful  is  this 
place !  this  is  none  other  than  the  house  of 
God,  and  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven.’  ” 

“  Mr.  M.,”  said  he,  “  I  shall  sleep  here  to¬ 
night.  I  have  always  been  afraid  to  come 
into  the  room.  Now  I  should  love  to  spend 
my  days  and  nights  here.  0,  what  a  God  he 
is!  Do  you  think  he  can  forgive  and  forget 
all  my  wicked  words  against  him  ?  When  he 

has  been  trying  to  do  the  very  best  thing  for 

•  • 
me,  what  a  shame  that  I  should  be  treating 

him  so.  How  is  it  that  he  spares  men  who 


AGNES. 


147 


act  as  I  did  ?  0,  if  I  don’t  spend  my  life  in 

making  people  love  him !  How  came  He  to 

send  von  to  me  in  the  Park  ?  You  must  have 

%/ 

had  a  revelation.  It  could  not  have  been  an 
accident.  Let  me  see  that  card-case  again. 
That  little  key  fitted  the  lock  on  my  heart, 
and  you  got  into  it.  How  old  was  she  ?  Do 
tell  me  all  about  her.” 

We  were  summoned  down  to  his  tea-table, 
though  I  had  already  taken  tea  before  leav¬ 
ing  home.  The  table  was  beautifully  and 
richly  spread. 

.•  ‘  “  These  initials  on  this  china  have  an  inter¬ 
esting  tale,  I  suppose,  to  you,”  said  I. 

“Mr.  M.”  said  he,  “I  am  in  a  new  world. 
Everything  is  changed.  When  I  took  up 
these  sugar-tongs  and  saw  these  embossed 
initials  of  my  wife’s  name,  a  pang  went 
through  me ;  but  it  was  followed,  for  the 
first  time,  by  a  feeling  of  peace,  and  even  of 
joy.  I  have  something  to  live  for  now.  God 
is  better  than  family,  heaven  is  more  than 
earth  ;  to  do  good  is  all  that  life  is  worth. 


148 


AGNES. 


Do  help  me,  and  set  me  at  work.  Have  you 
not  some  poor  people  that  I  can  visit?  If 
any  of  them  are  in  trouble,  let  me  know  it. 
Excuse  me ;  you  asked  about  the  china,  —  I 
hardly  think  of  anything  that  belongs  to  this 
world.  Yes,,  it  came  from  Hamburg,  a  wed¬ 
ding  present  from  her  mother;  but  how  it 
has  lost  its  value  to  me  in  a  day.  How  little 
she  cares  for  it.  What  are  all  these  treasures 
worth  ?  I  have  property,  you  know ;  but  it 
could  not  give  health  nor  save  life.  My  house 
is  full  of  valuable  things,  and  now  I  should  be 
willing  to  give  them  all  away  and  be  a  mis¬ 
sionary,  if  I  were  fit.  Do  tell  me  everything 
about  that  little  key.  I  suspect,  by  your 
carrying  it  with  you,  it  has  had  some  great 
effect  upon  your  feelings.  Now  I  think  of 
it,  I  know  that  undertaker  has  one  that 
belongs  to  me.  Yes,  it  was  locked,  I  am 
sure,”  said  he,  with  a  thoughtful  inclination 
of  his  face  ;  “  the  coffin  was  locked  before  I 
Caine  out  of  the  tomb,  I  remember.  I  heard 
the  little  click.  I  must  go  to-night,  —  no,  it’s 


AGNES. 


149 


the  Sabbath,  —  I  will  go  to-morrow  and  get 
that  key.” 

“  Do  so,”  said  I.  “  You  will  find  it  to  be 
the  richest  and  most  useful  treasure,  next  to 
the  Bible,  which  ever  came  into  your  hands.” 
And  after  much  conversation,  I  bade  him 
good-night. 

“God  bless  you,  my  dear  sir,”  said  he. 
“Do  not  regret  leaving  me  alone,  now;  the 
house  seems  full  of  God.  You  have  done 
good  to  one  miserable  sinner ;  keep  on,  and 
God  help  you  to  bless  many  like  me.” 

What  a  walk  was  that  to  my  house !  I  took 
the  little  key  and  bathed  it  with  kisses  and 
tears.  Dear  little  Agnes!  you  have  done 
great  good  already  by  your  death.  “0  Lord, 
our  Lord,  how  excellent  is  thy  name  in  all 
the  earth,  who  hast  set  thy  glory  above  the 
heavens.  Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes  and 
sucklings  hast  thou  ordained  strength  because 
of  thine  enemies,  that  thou  mightest  still  the 

enemy  and  the  avenger.” 

(13*) 


CHAPTER  X. 


Visiting  some  friends,  I  found  a  man  who 
had  often  conversed  with  me  about  a  great 
affliction  which  had  happened  to  him  eighteen 
months  before. 

He  had  long  been  dejected,  had  separated 
himself  from  the  world,  and  spent  much  time 
in  reading  the  Bible  and  in  prayer. 

He  told  me  that  all  this  seclusion  and  seem¬ 
ing  devotion  had  no  good  effect  upon  him ; 
but  the  contrary.  He,  too,  had  lost  a  child, 
and  then  his  wife.  It  had  made  him  almost 
insane.  The  loneliness  of  his  situation  was 
his  greatest  affliction,  on  account  of  the  brood¬ 
ing  melancholy  which  it  occasioned.  Unhap¬ 
pily,  he  was  obliged  to  follow  a  sedentary  life, 

« 

being  a  very  able  accountant,  and  spending 
his  time  at  home  over  books  and  sheets  of 
figures,  which  were  deposited  with  him  by  as- 

(150) 


AGNES. 


151 


signees.  He  was  a  man  of  education,  of 
great  refinement  of  taste  and  feeling,  and  in 
easy  circumstances. 

The  day  that  I  called  to  see  him,  I  was  sur¬ 
prised  to  find  him  unusually  cheerful  and 
happy.  I  expressed  my  wonder,  and  asked 

him  if  anything  good  had  happened  to  him. 

* 

“  Sit  down  here  on  this  sofa,”  said  he,  “  and 
I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  know  that  I 
have  been  in  the  depths  of  misery  ever  since 
I  met  with  my  bereavement.  How  much  I 
have  prayed  over  it  I  cannot  tell  you.  Never 
was  it  out  of  my  thoughts  for  many  moments 
at  a  time.  It  would  come  over  me  suddenly 
while  adding  up  a  column  of  figures,  and  put 
everything  out  of  my  mind.  I  could  not  for¬ 
get  her,  nor  my  dreadful  agony  when  she 
died,  and  at  the  funeral  and  the  grave.  0, 
how  I  have  prayed  to  God,  day  and  night,  that 
he  would  relieve  me  !  Sometimes,  however, 
I  have  kneeled  down  to  pray  about  it,  and  all 
my  feeling  seemed  to  depart.  I  was  as  dead 


152 


AGNES. 


and  cold  as  a  stone.  I  began  to  understand 
what  Coleridge  describes: 

“  ‘  A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  drear,  and  dark, 

A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioned  grief, 

Which  finds  no  natural  outlet  and  relief, 

In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear.’  * 

“  I  said  a  few  incoherent  words,  and  went 
away,  feeling  that  I  had  no  religion,  reproach¬ 
ing  myself  that  I  could  treat  my  Maker  in 
such  a  manner.  Then  I  would  relent  and 
again  ask  God  to  comfort  me;  but  praying 
only  seemed  to  make  my  sensibilities  more 
keen,  and  to  press  my  bitter  loss  upon  them. 

“  One  evening,  as  I  was  kneeling  and  pray¬ 
ing  about  it,  and  finding  that  I  was  going 
through  the  same  process  which  for  so  long  a 
time  had  resulted  in  disappointment,  it  sud¬ 
denly  struck  me  that  I  must  help  myself.  I 
had  a  feeling  of  resolution  come  over  me, 
which  I  think  was  in  answer  to  prayer.  I 
resolved  that  I  would  no  longer  be  such  an 


*  Dejection.  —  Coleridge's  Poems. 


AGNES. 


153 


impotent  creature.  I  plainly  saw  that  God 
could  not  help  me  except  as  he  made  me  help 
myself,  and  I  resolved  to  use  means  of  relief  in 
dependence  on  God. 

“The  first  thing  I  did,  was  to  accept  an 
invitation  to  a  select  party,  made  in  honor  of 
some  friends  of  mine.  I  had  shut  myself  out 
from  all  such  scenes  for  more  than  a  year ;  and 
now,  though  I  had  no  more  relish  for  them 
than  before,  I  resolved  that  I  would  mix  with 
society,  not  to  be  entertained,  but  to  make 
others  happy.  I  went  to  the  party  with  that 
resolution.  It  was,  some  would  think,  an 
incongruous  thing  to  go  to  a  party  under  the 
influence  of  a  text;  but  why  should  it  be  so  ? 
I  thought  of  this  :  c  The  Son  of  man  came  not 
to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister.’  That 
evening  I  spoke  with  almost  every  soul  in  the 
room.  Those  whom  I  did  not  know,  I  asked 
to  be  made  acquainted  with,  and  exchanged 
pleasant  words  with  them,  found  that  some  of 
them  were  old  acquaintances  of  my  parents, 
and  some  went  to  school  with  my  sisters,  and 


154 


A  G  IN  E  S  . 


some  told  me  what  frolics  they  and  I  had 
when  we  were  children  together,  and  others 
related  their  great  sorrows;  till  at  last  I  found 
that  I  was  really  a  happy  man,  —  younger  by 
ten  years  than  a  day  before.  I  saw  some  of 
them  look  at  me,  and  overheard  one  say  to 
another,  ‘What  do  you  suppose  has  happened? 
Engaged  again  ?  ’  I  went  home  resolved  that 
I  would  no  longer  live  to  myself.  When  I 
went  to  my  room  that  night,  the  first  thing  I 
did  was  to  repent  of  my  thousands  of  prayers. 
How  selfish,  how  wrong  they  seemed.  0, 
how  God  must  .have  regarded  me,  a  droning, 
morbid  creature,  refusing  to  do  and  to  enjoy 
anything  because  I  had  been  afflicted,  and 
asking  God  to  do  an  impossibility.  I  never 
before  truly  submitted  myself  and  my  trouble 
to  God;  my  prayers  were  complaints,  mur- 
murings,  if  not  impeachments ;  but  I  began 
to  see  and  feel  the  power  of  that  word,  ‘  Be 
still  and  know  that  I  am  God.’  I  do  believe 
that  the  best  help  which  we  can  have  in  afflic- 
lion  is  that  which,  by  God’s  grace,  we  are 


AGNES. 


155 


enabled  to  give  ourselves,  using  our  common 
sense,  availing  ourselves  of  expedients  to 
assist  and  cheer  the  mind,  resorting  to  va¬ 
rious  methods  of  changing  the  current  of 
thought,  making  waste-locks  and  wiers  to 
diminish  the  strength  of  the  tide,  and  toll  in 
supplies  of  new  thoughts  and  feelings  for  our 
help” 

“  Had  you  no  alternations  of  feeling  ?  ”  said 
I.  “  Did  not  your  sorrows  come  back  without 
leave  ?  ” 

“  Of  course  they  did,”  said  he  ;  “  but  I  took 
care  to  barricade  myself  against  them.  Short 
journeys  I  found  useful  •  entertaining,  cheer¬ 
ful  books,  especially  those  of  a  scientific, 
descriptive  kind,  which  led  to  no  intro¬ 
verted  contemplation,  but  kept  my  thoughts 
out  at  pasture ;  humorous  writings,  the  news 
of  the  day,  anything  which  would  take  my 
attention  and  hold  it  by  an  intrinsic  interest, 
so  that  I  did  not  feel  that  I  was  practising  arts 
with  myself,  did  much  to  help  me.” 

Dut  did  you  not  thereby  lose  something 


156 


AGNES. 


of  your  spiritual-mindedness,  your  interest  in 
prayer  ? 

“Far  from  it.  My  prayers  became  more 
like  the  Epistle  of  James ;  works  and  faith 
met  in  them  •  I  had  a  good  conscience  ;  I  was 
living  to  make  others  happy;  I  had  become 
reconciled  to  God.  Besides,  I  had  more  true 
religious  enjoyment  than  before,  from  Scrip¬ 
tural  truths.”  , 

“  That  is  what  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  you 
speak  of  more  at  large,”  said  I;  “for  what¬ 
ever  illustrates  the  Word  of  God  is  exceed¬ 
ingly  precious.” 

“Well”  said  he,  “one  day  I  read  this  pas¬ 
sage,  6  The  night  is  far  spent,  the  day  is  at 
hand/  It  came  to  my  mind,  How  soon  I  shall 
be  in  heaven.  Perhaps  even  now  I  am  on  the 
very  verge ;  perhaps  in  a  few  days  I  shall  be 
with  God.  How  sorry  I  shall  be  if  I  spent 
my  time  in  useless  weeping,  when  relief  was 
all  the  while  so  near. 

“  I  thought  also  of  these  words :  c  If  thou 
faint  in  the  day  of  adversity,  thy  strength  is 


AGNES. 


157 


small/  It  is  sublime  to  bear  the  fearful 
strokes  of  God’s  providence  with  meekness 
and  firmness ;  to  endure ;  to  show  one’s  self 
a  man.  IIow  true  this  is  : 

“  ‘God  did  anoint  thee  with  his  odorous  oil, 

To  wrestle,  not  to  reign.’  * 

“  I  have  felt  that  terrible  calamities  are 

i 

great  blessings  to  the  spirit  of  a  man  who 
knows  how  to  suffer.  To  such  a  man,  a  great 
affliction  from  God  is  like  a  great  blast  in  a 
quarry, —  it  throws  out  great  treasures,  or  it 
opens  a  way  for  great  projects.  I  revere  a 
man  who  is  in  great  affliction.  God  seems  to 
have  selected  him,  like  a  piece  of  second- 
growth  timber,  for  an  important  work.  It  is 
not  every  one  who  can  be  trusted  to  suffer 
greatly.  I  look  with  great  respect  upon  an 
honest  man  who  has  fallen  into  disfavor  and 
is  greatly  abused..  Many  a  time,  when  we 
were  boys,  you  know,  we  were  attracted  to  an 
apple  tree  in  a  pasture,  by  the  great  number 

*  Miss  Barrett.  —  “  What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?  ” 

14 


153 


AGNES. 


of  clubs  and  stones  which  lay  under  it,  show¬ 
ing  that  the  fruit  had  attracted  notice.  To 
angels  in  heaven,  a  good  man  enduring  suffer¬ 
ings  well,  must  be  a  sublime  sight ;  for  suf¬ 
ferings  and  faith  are  no  part  of  their  expe¬ 
rience  ;  but  to  see  a  mortal  bearing  the  afflic¬ 
tive  hand  of  God  with  faith  and  love,  must 
excite  their  admiration.  How  angels  flocked 
around  Christ;  how  they  must  have  loved 
him,  when  at  the  end  of  his  temptation 
‘  the  devil  leaveth  him,  and*  behold,  angels 
came  and  ministered  unto  him !  ’  There 
is  the  truest  courage,  I  think,  in  adjusting 
ourselves  to  our  circumstances.  If  God  be¬ 
reaves  us,  let  us  live  bereaved ;  if  he  takes  a 
blessing  from  us,  let  us  do  without  it ;  not 
with  stoicism,  but  with  childlike  submission, 
—  ‘Father,  you  know  best.’ 

“  Besides,”  said  he,  “  God  is  all  the  time 
teaching  us  that  this  is  not  an  unmixed  con¬ 
dition,  neither  of  evil  nor  good.  Compensa¬ 
tions  are  the  rule  of  his  gracious  providence  ; 
we  all  have  them.  I  have  learned  to  have 


AGNES. 


159 


less  pity  for  greatly  afflicted  people  than 
formerly;  for  I  know  that  they  have  great 
consolations,  and  their  losses  are  in  one  way 
and  another  atoned  for,  in  some  degree,  if 
they  feel  and  act  right.  6  In  the  day  of  pros¬ 
perity  he  joyful ;  but  in  the  day  of  advershy 
consider :  God  also  hath  set  the  one  over 
against  the  other,  to  the  end  that  man  should 
find  nothing  after  him,’  making  man  feel  that 
God  adjusts  and  disposes  everything.  These 
lines  of  Gray  have  been  a  comfort  to  me  : 

“  ‘  Still,  where  rosy  pleasure  leads, 

See  a  kindred  grief  appear  ; 

Behind  the  steps  that  misery  treads, 

Approaching  comfort  hear. 

The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow 
Chastised  by  sadder  tints  of  woe, 

And  blended,  form,  with  artful  strife, 

The  strength  and  harmony  of  life.’  ”  *  , 

“Now,”  said  I,  “let  me  thank  you  for  all 
that  you  have  said,  and  tell  you  something  of 
my  experience  under  sorrow,  and  that  may 


*  “  Vicissitude.” —  Gray’s  Poems. 


1G0 


AGNES. 


start  other  trains  of  thought  in  you  which  I 
shall  be  glad  to  hear.” 

“  I  have  heard  several  speak  of  that  little 
key  of  yours,”  said  he,  “  and  what  legerde¬ 
main  you  seemed  to  work  with  it  in  the  feel¬ 
ings  of  people.  I  hope  that  you  will  try  it  on 
me.” 

“  You  are  past  needing  it,”  said  I  -  “ye t  we 
can  always  help  one  another  from  our  expe¬ 
rience.  One  effect  of  affliction  on  me  has 
been  to  make  me  forgiving.  People  some¬ 
times  inflict  great  injuries  upon  me ;  for  you 
know  my  calling  leads  me  into  scenes  where 
I  have  to  resist  the  evil  passions  of  men.  Few 
men  get  more  ill-will  than  one  who  tries  to 
discharge  the  duties  of  his  place  with  im¬ 
partiality.  The  treatment  which  I  used  to 
•meet  with,  frequently  embittered  my  feelings 
against  men.  Since  I  lost  my  child,  strange 
to  say,  I  find  it  harder  to  cherish  animosities. 
Some  roots,  you  know,  cannot  take  hold  of 
rich  soil ;  they  need  sandy,  coarse  ground  •  so, 
when  our  hearts  are  fertilized  by  affliction,  it 


AGKES 


1G1 


is  hard  for  certain  poor  things  to  get  a  place 
there.  When  a  man  injures  me,  I  have  a 
feeling  of  tenderness  toward  him  come  over 
me  at  times,  if  I  say  with  myself,  I  wonder  if 
he  has  a  little  child,  or  ever  lost  one ;  and  that 
thought  —  you  will  smile  —  has  sometimes 
kept  me  from  replying  in  the  newspapers  to 
angry  assaults  upon  me.  I  know  how  weak 
many  would  deem  me  for  this ;  but  so  it  is. 
Many  a  time,  when  my  feelings  have  been 
exasperated,  I  have  taken  the  little  key  into 
my  hands,  and  the  thought  of  the  little  grave 
has  calmed  my  passions.  I  have  stolen  Mark 
Anthony’s  words : 

“  My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  ”  Agnes, 

“  And  I  must  wait  till  it  comes  back  to  me.” 

“As,  when  it  thunders  and  lightens,  I  often 
think  how  secure  the  little  sleeper  is  ;  and, 
when  the  heavy  rain  comes  down  on  that 
peaceful  bed,  my  heart  betakes  itself  to  calm 
thoughts,  because  the  precious  dust  feels  no 
tempests,  wakes  at  no  alarm,  —  so  in  trouble 
that  little  grave  makes  me  feel  peaceful. 


162 


AGNES. 


How  often  have  I  said  to  myself,  when  a 
man  lias  written  against  me  or  spoken  ill  of 
me,  Could  I  meet  him  at  the  grave  of  his 
little  child  or  mine,  we  should  almost  love  one 
another  •  we  should  write  and  speak  about 
each  other,  publicly,  in  unexceptionable  terms. 
I  almost  wish  that  some  of  our  great  conven¬ 
tions  could  be  held  inside  the  fences  of  some 
cemetery.  ” 

“  There  will  be  a  great  convention  in  every 
one  of  them,  one  of  these  days,”  said  he. 
“The  last  great  meetings  of  men  on  earth 
will  most  of  them  be  held  there  ” 

“Each  of  us  will  come  to  attend  them,’: 
said  I. 

“Resolutions  will  be  of  no  effect  then,”  he 
added,  taking  up  a  newspaper  filled  with  mat¬ 
ters  relating  to  the  presidential  election.  “0, 
did  you  notice  the  loss  of  that  passenger  ship 
with  four  hundred  souls  on  board  ?  ” 

“  I  did,  and  it  made  me  think,  What  a 
cemetery  is  the  sea.  None  are  thought 
of,  loved,  and  mourned  over,  more  than 


163 


AGNES. 

they  who  find  their  sepulture  there.  It 
is  soothing  to  have  the  dust  of  a  child  or 
friend  in  a  sure,  safe  grave,  when  you  meet 
with  those  whose  loved  ones  are  lost  in  the 
great  waters.  But  He  who  is  the  resurrection 
and  the  life  has  his  eye  upon  them.  The  Lord 
*  buried  them,  and  no  man  knoweth  of  their 
sepulchres.  And  yet  they  are  more  conspicu¬ 
ously  buried  than  those  on  land.  Few  know 
where  one  and  another  on  land  lies  buried, 
but  the  unknown  sepulchre  of  the  deep  is 
well  known;  those  viewless  graves  are  ever 
before  our  eyes.  I  have  noticed  that  they  who 
are  lost,  or  die,  at  sea,  exert  great  religious 
influence  on  survivors  at  home.  Christ  is 
magnified  in  their  bodies  by  their  death.” 

“I  love  to  think,”  said  he,  u that  our  sepa¬ 
rations,  griefs,  and  our  improvement  under 
them,  will  make  us  love  each  other  intensely 
when  we  meet  again.” 

I  said  to  him,  “  If  afflictions  make  us  sullen, 
slothful,  jealous  of  God,  morose,  and  useless, 
we  shall  feel  very  much  ashamed  hereafter. 


1G4 


AGNES. 


Our  afflictions  pierce  the  heart  of  God  before 
they  reach  ours.  He  is  willing  to  see  us 
suffer  greatly  for  the  endless  good  effect  which 
he  means  to  accomplish  by  it.  Should  he 
spare  the  rod  for  our  crying,  or  should  he 
consult  our  wishes,  it  would  be  our  calamity.” 

“  Do  you  not  suppose,”  he  asked,  u  that  the  * 
remembrance  and  the  pain  of  some  trials  fol¬ 
low  us  to  the  end  of  life  ?  When  I  was  sick 
some  years  ago,  they  gave  me  a  medicine 
which  they  called  Hiera  Picra,  which,  trans¬ 
lated,  you  know,  means  Sacred  Bitter.  God 
seems  to  dispense  such  medicines  sometimes. 

I  could  not  remove  the  taste  of  that  hitter 
by  any  expedient.” 

“  Do  you  remember,”  I  inquired,  “  a  passage 
in  Prior’s  Life  of  Edmund  Burke,  which  speaks 
of  his  feelings  at  the  loss  of  his  son,  the  ‘  low 
moan  ’  which  continued  in  his  heart  long  after 
he  had  submitted  to  God,  and  how  he  would 
hang  on  the  neck  of  his  son’s  horse  and  weep  ? 
Yes,  there  are  sorrows  which  we  carry  with 


AGNES. 


165 


ns  to  our  graves.  They  ought,  however,  to 
make  us  more  useful,  more  diligent,  more 
grateful  for  redemption ;  for  what  must  it  be 
to  ‘lie  down  in  sorrow,’  in  another  world? 
To  a  man  in  hell,  what  must  the  recollection 
of  his  children  be?  What  a  word  that  is: 
6  Ye  shall  lie  down  in  sorrow.’  Did  you  ever 
notice  that  fearful  imprecation :  6  Give  them 
sorrow  of  heart,  thy  curse  unto  them  ’  ”  ? 

“  My  heart  exults  sometimes,”  said  he,  “  in 
thinking  of  that  word:  6  And  God  shall  wipe 
away  all  tears  from  their  eyes ;  and  there 
shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor 
crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain ; 
for  the  former  things  are  passed  away.’  We 
can  bear  anything  for  this  short  period ;  the 
thought  that  afterward  there  is  never  to  be 
one  sensation  of  pain  or  grief,  but  increasing 
bliss  forever,  ought  to  make  us  cheerful  here.” 

“  It  ought  to  make  us  diligent,”  I  replied  ; 
“  for  when  I  think  how  long  that  bliss  will  be, 
how  many  are  in  danger  of  losing  it,  how 


166 


AGNES. 


short  a  time  we  have  to  secure  it,  and  help 
others  to  obtain  it,  I  do  not  feel  impatient 
for  heaven ;  I  wish  to  live  and  do  good  to  my 
fellow  men.” 

As  we  parted,  I  told  my  friend  how  glad  I 
felt  that  he  had  learned  the  self-control  which 
religion  teaches.  Our  feelings  are  not  given 
to  us  for  our  guide  ;  we  must  subject  them  to 
the  laws  of  God.  Though  it  was  easier  to 
commend  him  than  fully  to  imitate  him,  I 
carried  away  with  me  a  new  purpose,  that,  by 
the  help  of  God,  I  would  endeavor,  more  than 
ever,  to  help  myself. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


“  Which  is  the  greater  trial/’  said  my  wife, 
as  we  rode  home  from  a  visit  to  some  friends 
in  affliction,  —  “to  lose  a  child,  or  to  leave  it?” 

I  replied :  “  To  lose  it,  so  far  as  my  observa¬ 
tion  has  gone.  Nothing  has  surprised  me  more 
than  the  resignation  and  peace  of  some  Chris¬ 
tian  mothers,  when  called  to  die  and  to  leave  a 
family  of  young  children.  There  was  a  pang 
when  the  conviction  that  they  must  die  came 
over  them ;  but  it  was  short,  and  I  have 
wondered  at  the  self-possession  with  which 
they  looked  upon  the  children  afterwards.” 

Mrs.  M.  “How  do  you  account  for  it? ” 

Mr.  M.  “  Partly  from  natural  causes. 

Some  instincts  which  are  given  us  for  self- 

preservation  are  mercifully  suspended  when 

they  can  be  of  no  use.  People  falling  from  a 

height,  or  thrown  from  a  vehicle,  are  not  fully 

# 

(167) 


168 


AGNES, 


sensible  of  what  is  happening  to  them.  Be¬ 
sides,  God  is  pleased  to  stay  his  rough  wind  in 
the  day  of  his  east  wind.  Dying  grace  is  for 
a  dying  hour ;  we  cannot  feel  in  health  as  we 
shall  in  the  last  hours  of  life” 

Mrs.  M.  “  The  expectation  of  what  is  to 
happen  to  ourselves,  I  suppose,  abates  our  soli¬ 
citude  for  others  ” 

Mr.  M.  “  When  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  to  Europe,  after  we  were  married,  the 
anticipation  of  all  which  I  was  to  see  and  ex¬ 
perience,  held  my  regret  at  leaving  you,  so  to 
speak,  in  suspension ;  the  mind  cannot  long  be 
acted  upon  powerfully  by  two  opposite  pas¬ 
sions  ;  one  yields  ;  and  so  I  suppose  it  is  witn 
the  solicitude  of  parents  for  their  children,  v 
when  their  own  departure  takes  full  posses¬ 
sion  of  their  thoughts.  But  there  is  something 
better  than  all  this,  T  think,  as  a  means  of  pre¬ 
paring  us  to  leave  children  ” 

Mrs  M.  “  What  is  that  ?  —  for  I  am  going 
this  afternoon  to  see  Mrs.  Wales,  wTho  is  dying 


AGNES. 


1C9 


of  consumption.  She  has  six  children,  from 
sixteen,  down  to  one  year  old.” 

“I  will  go  with  you,”  said  I;  “for  I  should 
expect  to  be  greatly  instructed  by  seeing  and 
hearing  her.” 

The  morning  glories  were  climbing  over  the 
windows  of  Mrs.  Wales’  humble  room,  turning 
their  simple,  beautiful  trump ekflowers,  of  dif¬ 
ferent  colors,  in  all  directions,  and  some  of 
them  towards  the  open  windows,  where  I  took 
my  seat. 

“  God  is  here,  my  dear  Mrs.  Wales,”  said  I, 
as  I  drew  one  of  the  creepers  toward  me,  full  of 
flowers,  and  looked  at  her.  “If  God  so  clothe 
the  grass,  how  much  more  will  he  clothe  us.” 

She  was  supported  in  bed  with  pillows,  look¬ 
ing  nearly  as  white  as  they.  The  peace  of 
God  which  passeth  all  understanding  was  ex¬ 
pressed  in  her  face. 

“  Mr.  M.,”  said  she,  “  I  have  given  all  up  to 
God,  and  feel  that  I  no  longer  have  any  re¬ 
sponsibility  for  anything.” 

My  wife  asked  her  if  she  was  able  to  look 


15 


170 


AGNES. 


upon  her  babe  and  the  other  children  with 
composure  of  mind. 

"  Yes/’  she  replied;  "but  I  am  a  wonder  to 
myself.  Their  father  has  gone  to  heaven,  and 
I  expect  to  be  there  soon,  and  these  children 
will  be  orphans.  But  I  have  this  feeling: 
God  knows  what  he  is  doing.  Now,  if  he  sees 
fit  to  take  us  away  from  our  six  children,  let 
him  do  it;  for  he  sees  a  reason  for  it  which 
would  satisfy  me,  could  I  be  made  acquainted 
with  it.  Or,  if  he  never  tells  me  why  he  does 
it,  still,  blessed  be  his  name ;  for  who  are  we, 
that  God  should  explain  his  conduct  to  us  ? 
0,  how  good  it  is  to  trust  God  and  love  him, 
when  you  cannot  understand  his  ways !  ” 

Mrs.  M.  "  But  you  must  have  some  natural 
pangs,  as  you  think  of  parting  with  these  dear 
ones.” 

Mrs.  W  “  0,  Mrs.  M.,  there  is  no  reasoning 
about  it.  All  I  know  is  that  I  am  at  peace.” 

Mr.  M.  “  Tell  me,  Mrs.  Wales,  what  one 
thought  comes  to  your  mind  with  special 
power  as  you  think  of  leaving  these  children? 


AGNES. 


m 


Is  there  one  thing  more  than  another  which 
gives  you  special  comfort  ?  ” 

Mrs.  W.  “I  think  it  is  this:  I  feel  sure  of 
meeting  them  all  in  heaven,  and  it  seems  to 
me  a  very  little  while  ere  I  shall.  The  last 
time  I  went  to  church,  our  minister  was  speak¬ 
ing  about  the  expectation  which  the  Apostles 
sometimes  seem  to  have  had,  that  the  day  of 
the  Lord  was  near,  and  he  said  perhaps  it 
might  be  accounted  for  by  their  all-absorbing 
interest  in  that  event,  which  made  intervening 
time  and  objects  shrink  to  nothing.  Heaven 
and  eternity  so  engross  my  mind,  that  I 
strangely  forget  earthly  things,  however  im¬ 
portant  ;  and  I  chide  myself  sometimes  for 
not  planning  and  directing  about  my  children. 
But,  besides  being  weak,  I  stop  myself  when  I 
do  this  at  all,  by  saying,  How  little  you  know 
about  the  future !  It  is  like  walking  in  the 
fog.  You  can  see  a  few  steps  only  at  a 
time ;  take  them,  and  you  can  see  as  many 
more.  My  sister  and  her  husband  have 
promised  to  befriend  my  children,  but  0,” 


172 


AGNES, 


said  she,  covering  lier  face,  L  God  is  tlieir  God 
and  my  God,  —  that  is  enough.  ” 

Mr.  M.  “  But  you  feel  so  sure  of  meet¬ 
ing  them  all  in  heaven, —  how  is  this?  What 
gives  you  such  confidence?” 

Mrs.  W.  “  Jane,  my  child,  hand  Mr.  M.,  that 
missionary  paper  which  has  the  piece  about 
leaving  children.” 

It  was  a  periodical  of  a  foreign  missionary 
society.  I  read  aloud.  It  seems  that  a  dying 
father,  a  missionary,  was  about  to  leave  four 
young  children ;  his  wife,  their  mother,  having 
previously  died.  The  writer  says : 

“  There  was  another  subject  ■which  claimed  his  most  earnest 
thought.  He  was  about  to  leave  his  four  motherless  children, 
in  a  strange  land,  to  the  exclusive  care  of  a  doubly  bereaved 
sister.  Knowing  him  to  be  an  affectionate  father,  always 
anxious  and  careful  in  regard  to  his  offspring,  I  hardly  dared  to 
mention  the  case.  I  soon  found,  however,  that  his  mind  was 
entirely  at  rest  in  relation  to  them.  Their  sainted  mother  had 
dedicated  them  to  God  ;  he  had  renewed  that  dedication.  A 
covenant  had  been  made  “with  the  Lord  to  train  them  up  whollv 
for  him.  But  now,  by  his  holy  providence,  one  party  (the 
parents)  was  disabled  from  performing  the  covenant;  its  whole 
execution,  therefore,  devolved  upon  God.  ‘  He  is  faithful  and 


AGNES. 


almighty  ;  not  one  thing  which  he  has  promised,  shall  fail.’ 
Our  dying  brother  triumphed  in  this  thought.  He  said  he  felt 
sure  that  he  should  meet  all  his  children  in  heaven.  ‘  Sumner, 
Ellen,  Lizzie,  and  (his  voice  failing,  he  rallied  his  waning  pow¬ 
ers,  and,  conquering  the  conqueror,  said  clearly)  Susie !  Not 
one  of  them  will  be  wanting.’  He  thus  left  them  with  the  most 
delightful  and  unreserved  confidence  in  the  care  of  a  covenant¬ 
keeping  God  and  a  gracious  Father.  Knowing  his  anxious 
temperament,  I  looked  with  wonder  and  admiration  upon  this 
victory  of  his  faith.” 

Mrs.  W.  “  That  is  my  expectation  and  my 
hope.  God  is  a  covenant-keeping  God.  I 
have  intrusted  my  soul  to  him  for  eternity  in 
J esus  Christ,  and  I  will  trust  my  children  with 
him.” 

Mrs.  M.  “  Have  you  no  doubt,  Mrs.  W.  ?  ” 

Mrs.  W.  “  Sometimes  it  is  whispered  in  my 
ear,  The  children  of  good  people  do  not  always 
turn  out  well;  yours  may  be  of  that  descrip¬ 
tion.  I  cannot  reason  about  this,  either.” 

“  Where  reason  fails, 

With  all  her  powers, 

There  faith  prevails, 

And  love  adores.” 

“  You  have  lost  your  dear  child,”  said  she  ; 

15* 


174 


AGNES. 


“  you  are  not  to  leave  her  behind  you.  Some 
might  think  that  you  have  more  to  be  thank¬ 
ful  for  than  I.  It  may  not  seem  so  hereafter. 
When  my  six  children  come  to  me  in  heaven, 
having  been  useful  here,  bringing  their  sheaves 
with  them,  how  glad  I  shall  be  that  I  had  six 
orphans  to  trust  with  God  ! 

I  did  not  take  out  the  little  key  from  my 
pocket,  as  I  thought  at  first  that  I  should  do. 
These  words  had  made  me  feel  that  some  of 
my  sorrows  over  that  little  key  had  not  been 
wise.  I  saw  that  it  would  be  out  of  place  if  I 
should  use  it  to  instruct  this  dying  saint. 

“  Beautiful  words,”  she  continued, — “  ‘  the 
seed  of  Abraham,  my  friend.’  Have  you  never 
witnessed,  Mr.  M.,  touching  instances  of  kind¬ 
ness  among  men  toward  the  children  of  one 
wdio  was  an  early  friend  ?  ” 

Mr.  M.  “  Surely  I  have.  I  am  myself  an 
instance  of  it.  A  friend  of  my  father,  a  col¬ 
lege  classmate,  has  bestowed  loving  kindness 
on  me  which  I  can  never  repay  in  this  world.” 


AGNES. 


175 


Mrs.  W.  "  Is  not  God  the  author  of  that 
feeling  toward  the  child  of  a  dear  friend?” 

Mr.  M.  "  No  doubt  he  is.” 

Mrs.  W.  "  Then  he  possesses  it  himself.” 

Mr.  M.  "Yes,  and  exercises  it,  he  says, 
‘to  a  thousand  generations.’” 

"Mrs.  Wales,”  said  I,  "the  influence  of  a 
godly  man  or  woman,  eminent  for  some  special 
love  and  service  toward  God,  follows  in  the 
line  of  descent  through  long  periods  of  gen¬ 
ealogy  ;  there  are  families  among  us,  you  know, 
who  have  a  reputation  for  goodness ;  uncom¬ 
mon  numbers  of  their  children  are  hopefully 
pious ;  we  honor  the  stock  to  which  they  be¬ 
long,  but  we  do  not  always  consider  that  all  has 

f 

proceeded,  in  many  cases,  without  doubt,  from 
the  signal  favor  which  God  bore  to  some  man 
or  woman  who  maintained  a  life  of  peculiar 
walking  with  God,  sealing  it  continually  with 
fresh  acts  of  love  and  service.  And  so  that 
blessing  promised  to  Christ  is  virtually  ful¬ 
filled  to  them :  ‘  I  will  make  thy  name  to  be 


.176 


AGNES. 


remembered  in  all  generations ;  therefore 
shall  the  people  praise  thee  for  ever  and  ever.” 

“But,”  said  my  wife,  "what  sight  is  more 
heartrending  than  a  family  of  orphans  ?  ” 

"  And  yet,”  said  I,  “  observation  has  led  me 

to  feel  less  and  less  solicitude,  in  seeing  a  fam¬ 
ily  of  children  left  in  orphanage  by  parents 

who  were  truly  the  children  of  God.  The 
self-reliance  which  they  early  learn  and  prac¬ 
tise,  the  restraining  and  subduing  power  of  a 
deceased  parent’s  memory,  the  friends  raised 
up  for  them,  all  afford  a  good  comment  on 
those  words:  ‘  Leave  thy  fatherless  children, 
I  will  preserve  them  alive.’  Nothing  seems 
to  us  more  in  violation  of  the  natural  and 
proper  order  of  things,  than  the  removal  of  a 
mother  from  a  family  of  young  children.  We 
would  have  provided  against  such  a  calamity 
by  a  special  law,  had  we  arranged  the  affairs 
of  life  and  death.  He  who  is  willing  to  do  so 
great  and  solemn  a  thing  as  to  remove  a 
mother  from  the  head  of  her  large  family, 
must  have  reasons  for  it,  as  Mrs.  Wales  says, 


AGNES. 


1  >~7l~r 

1  l  L 

'  which  would  satisfy  us,  could  we  see  them 
with  a  right  mind/  Such  an  event  is  so 
peculiarly  an  act  of  God’s  providence,  we  may 
suppose  that  He  who  giveth  to  the  beast  his 
food,  and  to  the  young  ravens  which  cry,  will 
not  fail  to  accomplish  some  great  and  good 
purpose  by  it  to  all  who  love  him.  He 
soothes  the  feelings  of  our  dear  Mrs.  Wales, 
makes  her  speak  words  of  comfort  and  cheer 
to  those  whom  she  is  about  to  leave,  and  thus 
He  secures  for  himself,  in  the  hearts  of  the 
children,  oftentimes,  and  in  those  of  their 
friends,  a  degree  of  confidence  in  God  as  a 
covenant-keeping  God,  which  nothing  else 
could  so  well  inspire.” 

Mrs.  W.  “I  expect  to  do  more  for  my 
children  in  heaven  than  I  could  if  I  should 
live.” 

Mrs.  M.  “  Why,  Mrs.  Wales,  we  came  here 
to  comfort  you ;  but  we  are  almost  tempted 
to  say  we  have  never  found  so  great  faith ;  — 
certainly  not  in  ourselves.” 


178 


AGNES. 


Mr.  M.  a  Please  tell  us  liow  you  expect  in 
heaven  to  influence  your  children  ?  ” 

Mrs.  W.  “  They  will  cherish  my  memory ; 
remember  my  words ;  say  to  themselves,  How 
would  mother  approve  or  disapprove  of  this ! 
They  will  never  forget  my  praying  with  them. 
I  have  had  scenes  with  each  child  which  they 
will  think  of  as  long  as  they  live.” 

A  sweet  girl  of  twelve  years,  standing  with 
her  face  toward  the  window,  began  to  sob,  and 
suddenly  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  TV.  “  0,  that  dear  Charlotte !  I  was 
about  to  punish  her,  when  she  was  eight  years 
old,  for  an  untruth.  I  took  her  into  my  cham¬ 
ber,  locked  the  door,  kneeled  with  her,  spread 
the  case  before  God,  asked  him  to  help  me 
punish  her,  and  to  bless  the  rod  for  her  salvar 
tion,  and  then  I  administered  the  punishment. 
She  did  not  cry,  but  as  soon  as  I  had  done, 
she  put  her  arms  about  me,  and  said:  ‘Dear 
mother,  God  has  forgiven  me;  will  you?’  She 
has  been  almost  a  faultless  child  from  that  day 
to  this.  Discipline,  Mr.  M.,  is  greatly  needed 


AGNES. 


179 


in  many  Christian  families, — the  subjection  of 
children,  by  proper  restraints  and  punish¬ 
ments,  to  authority ;  but  they  must  be  made 
to  feel,  in  order  to  be  benefited,  that  God  is 
on  the  parents’  side;  and  therefore  T  have 
found  prayer  to  be  a  powerful  help  in  correct¬ 
ing  a  child.  I  have  not  finished  my  work 
with  my  children  ;  it  will  go  on  when  I  am  in 
heaven.” 

Mrs.  M.  66 1  thought  that  you  would  say 
that  you  expected  to  minister  to  them  here¬ 
after;  yet  I  know  that  you  are  not  apt  to 
have  romantic  or  visionary  feelings.  What 
do  you  think  about  this  ?  ” 

Mrs.  W.  “  J  may  or  may  not  minister  to 
them  directly;  that  will  be  as  God  sees  fit. 
What  could  I  do  for  them? — I,  who  cannot  save 
myself,  and  who  will  not  be  omniscient  in 
heaven,  any  more  than  I  am  here,  —  what  can 
I,  or  angels,  do  for  my  children,  except  as  God 
appoints  ?  I  trust  I  shall  not  come  between 
them  and  God,  in  their  love  and  confidence.; 
at  least,  I  have  told  them  so.” 


ISO 


AGNES. 


The  young  woman  who  took  care  of  her 
brought  in  the  little  boy,  about  a  year  old. 
He  saw  his  mother,  and  made  his  hands  and 
feet  fly  in  his  eagerness  to  get  to  her.  1 
looked  at  my  wife,  and  saw  her  face  covered 
with  tears  and  smiles.  I  knew  that  she  was 
reminded,  by  the  child,  of  her  own  little  girl, 
and  of  the  different  circumstances  in  her  own 
case  and  that  of  Mrs.  Wales;  and  that  she 
was  making  comparisons  between  this  dying 
mother  and  herself.  Christian  mother,  which 
of  the  two  would  you  prefer  to  be  —  a 
bereaved  mother,  your  only  child  in  heaven, 
or  a  dying  widow,  leaving  six  children  behind 
you  ? 

If  you  say,  a  bereaved  mother,  perhaps  one 
reason  is,  you  have  been  bereaved,  and  would 
rather  suffer  known  evils  than  those  which 
your  fancy  depicts  or  thinks  it  sees  in  others. 

But  while,  in  the  nature  of  things,  it  is  a 
greater  trial  of  faith  to  leave  a  family  of  chil¬ 
dren  you  probably  never  saw  a  parent 
doing;  so  who  suffered  as  much  as  one  who 

O 


181 


AGNES. 

has  buried  a  child.  0  Death!  there  is,  to 
survivors,  something  in  thee  to  which  life,  with 
all  its  fears  and  burdens,  furnishes  no  counter¬ 
part.  Thou  art  God’s  curse  against  sin,  unre¬ 
pealed  by  all  the  consolations  and  hopes  of 
religion,  which  indeed  help  us  to  endure  the 
stroke,  but  do  not  make  death  other  than  the 
king  of  terrors  to  us,  in  his  approaches  to 
those  whom  we  love.  It  is  not  so  hard  for  a 
Christian  to  die,  under  any  circumstances, 
as  it  is  to  lose  a  child  or  beloved  companion. 
The  dying  grace  which  we  say  is  for  a  dying 
hour,  sustains  us  when  we  die  and  leave  our 
friends;  but,  when  they  or  a  child  are  taken 
from  us,  we  are  left  with  all  our  weaknesses 
and  sinfulness  to  suffer  under  the  loss. 

A  pleasant  sight  now  caught  my  eye.  A 
little  girl,  about  three  years  old,  had  made  her¬ 
self  acquainted  with  my  wife  during  this  call, 
and  had  been  practising  her  little  arch  ways 
of  play  with  her.  My  wife  had  now  lifted  her 
upon  the  bed  where  the  mother  lay ;  she  drew 

up  her  chair,  fixed  a  napkin  on  the  child’s 
16 


182 


A  Cx  N  E  S . 


bosom,  and  set  her  to  eating  a  delicious  Bartlett 
pear,  which  she  had  in  her  pocket.  There  are 
few  things  that  afford  such  a  mixture  of 
amusement  and  happiness  as  to  take  a  little 
child  unawares,  one  with  whom  you  are  on 
familiar  terms,  set  it  down,  and  watch  it,  as 
you  give  it  a  delicious  fruit  and  see  it  eaten. 
The  looks  of  pleasure  from  a  pair  of  roguish 
eyes ;  the  glow  of  satisfaction  overspreading 
the  features ;  the  laughter  mixing  in  with  the 
motion  of  the  face  in  eating ;  the  occasional 
offer  of  a  bite  to  the  mother ;  the  slight  em¬ 
barrassment  at  seeing  us  all  looking  at  her ; 
made  the  little  girl  the  object  of  delighted 
admiration,  while  the  thought  of  its  approach¬ 
ing  orphanage  awakened  in  us  feelings  of 
tenderness  and  love. 

“  I  dare  say,”  said  her  mother,  a  little  Rachel 
will  meet  with  a  great  many  kind  acts,  and 
be  taken  care  of  ‘  I  know  all  the  fowls  of 
the  mountains/  God  tells  us.  This  little  one 
is  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows,  isn’t 
she  ?  I  am  going  to  be  with  God,  and  he 


AGNES. 


183 


will  remember  my  children,  surely,  when  he 
sees  me ;  and,  if  he  needed  any  remembrancer, 
how  much  better  able  I  should  be,  there,  to 
obtain  help  for  them,  than  here.  But,  after 
all,  how  little  we  know  about  such  things !  I 
give  all  up,  and  leave  them  with  God.” 

We  walked  away;  and,  so  full  were  we  of 
what  we  had  seen  and  heard,  that  we  hardly 
spoke  to  each  other  for  several  minutes.  At 
last  I  said : 

“From  this  time,  I  will  certainly  refrain 
from  sorrowing  over  our  afflicted  condition. 
I  would  not  exchange  places  with  Mrs.  Wales, 
with  all  her  consolations.” 

Mrs .  M.  “  If  you  were  in  her  place,  you 
would  have  her  consolations  with  it.  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  shall  cease  to  sorrow.  Our 
loss  is  none  the  less  real  and  great,  now,  than 
before  we  made  this  call ;  only,  we  see  how 
wrong  it  is  to  think  that  our  sufferings  are 
peculiar.” 

Mr.  M.  “  One  thing  makes  me  feel  humble 


184 


AGNES . 


and  quiet.  Here  is  a  dear  saint,  whom  (if 

lie  loves  me  at  all),  God  loves  as  much  as  he 

* 

loves  me.  Every  where  we  can  find  those 
who  are  dear  to  him.  It  bids  me  refrain 
from  exalting  myself  and  my  affairs  in  my 
own  esteem.  I  am  only  one ;  there  are  other 
interests  which  are  as  important  as  mine  ;  I 
feel  sorry  that  I  have  dwelt  so  much  on  my 
affliction.” 

Mrs.  M.  u  If  it  has  not  made  us  murmur, 
nor  kept  us  from  doing  our  duty,  we  ought 
not  to  reproach  ourselves  for  our  sorrows.  If 
something  had  made  us  happy,  how  inconsis¬ 
tent  it  would  have  been  if  we  had  wept.  God 
intends  that  we  should  be  joyful  in  prosperity, 
and  in  adversity  consider.” 

Mr.  M.  “  It  does  me  good  to  express  my 
unconsidered  feelings  to  you,  for,  by  the  act  of 
expressing  them,  I  am  led  to  see  their  error, 
and  so  am  kept  from  brooding  over  them.” 

Mrs.  M.  "You  said  nothing, I  observed, to 
Mrs.  Wales,  about  Agnes.” 


AGNES. 


185 


Mr.  M.  “  How  could  I,  with  such  a  sight 
before  me  as  those  little  children  of  hers, 
about  to  lose  such  a  mother  ?  ” 

Mrs.  M.  “  One  of  the  best  helps  in  sorrow 
and  trouble,  surely  is  to  visit  people  in  afflic¬ 
tion.” 

Mr.  M.  “  What  scenes  there  must  be  in 
heaven,  every  day,  in  the  meetings  of  parents 
and  children,  and  relatives  and  friends ;  but, 
among  them  all,  I  do  think  that  to  meet  a 
little  child,  who  died  in  infancy,  and  has  been 
for  years  in  heaven,  must  have  as  much  of 
surprise  and  gladness  in  it  as  anything.” 

Mrs.  M.  “  Yes,  but,  after  the  surprise  and 
gladness  are  over,  there  is  something  else 
which  I  think  must  be  a  richer  and  more  per¬ 
manent  joy.  You  know  that, when  the  novelty 
of  meeting,  after  long  separation,  has  ceased, 
we  need  something  still  to  prevent  satiety. 
Now,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  greatest,  the 
most  enviable  joy,  in  heavenly  recognitions, 
must  be  experienced  by  those  who  themselves, 


16* 


186 


AGNES. 


or  whose  children,  or  companions,  or  dear 

friends,  have  been  eminently  good  and  service¬ 
able  to  God  and  man.  Much  as  I  anticipate 

in  meeting  Agnes,  I  cannot  sympathize  wdth 
those  parents  who  long  to  die  in  order  to  see 
their  children.  After  getting  home  and  find¬ 
ing  all  well,  you  know  that  life  here  runs  on 
as  before;  getting  home  is  not  everything, 
pleasant  as  happy  returns  are.  I  would  rather 
be  Mrs.  Wales,  in  heaven,  receiving  her  chil¬ 
dren  who  shall  have  borne  the  Saviour’s  cross 
here,  and  hearing  him  say,  ‘Well  done!5 
than  to  meet  dear  little  Agnes,  a  thousand 
times  over.” 

Mr.  M.  “.Yon  are  right ;  so  should  I.” 

Mrs.  M.  “  I  wish  there  were  less  of  selfish¬ 
ness  in  our  sorrows,  and  less  of  it  in  our 
expectations  of  heaven.  To  be  useful  is  the 
great  end  of  life.  God  makes  some  useful  to 
his  church  by  suffering;  others  by  working. 
There  is  that  sick  minister,  whom  we  met  at 
S  — -  Springs,  afflicted  in  such  complicated 


r» 


AGNES.  187 

ways.  One  of  his  people  told  me  that  he  had 
done  great  good  by  his  spirit  and  behavior  in 
trouble,  and  by  his  prayers  and  occasional 
preaching,  in  all  the  neighboring  churches. 
His  wife  must  rejoice  over  him,  when  he 
comes  to  her  in  heaven,  far  more  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  way  in  which  God  has  honored 
him  in  doing  good  by  him,  than  for  any  other 
reason” 

Mr.  M.  “  I  am  told  that  they  send  for  him. 
far  and  near,  to  visit  people  in  great  trouble  of 
mind.  He  is  a  son  of  consolation.  A  mem¬ 
ber  of  Congress  told  me  that  he  could  count 
nine  educated  men,  who,  he  thought,  had 
been  led  to  a  religious  life  by  the  personal 
influence  of  that  man.” 

Mrs.  M.  “  Suppose  that  he  had  spent  his 
time  only  in  weeping  over  his  bereavements 
and  afflictions?” 

Mr.  M.  “  c  He  that  goeth  forth  and  weep- 
eth,  bearing  precious  seed;’  —  the  weeping 
sower  seems  to  be  a  paradox  in  natural  things* 


188 


AGNES. 


but  in  spiritual  things  it  is  good  for  sowers  to 
be  great  weepers.” 

Mrs.  M.  “  What  is  the  rest  of  that  pas¬ 
sage  ?  ” 

Mr.  M.  “  6  Shall  doubtless  come  again  with 
rejoicing,  bringing  his  sheaves  with  him.’  ” 

Mrs.  M.  “ 6  Sheaves  with  him.’  That  is 
the  way  to  make  meetings  and  greetings  in 
heaven  happy.  Just  to  be  restored  to  lost 
friends,  —  how  poor  a  satisfaction  this  is,  of 
itself!  Happiness  here  needs  something  solid 
to  make  it  satisfying;  it  will  be  so  there.  0, 
I  hope,  if  you  survive  me,  that  you  will  not 
waste  your  time  and  strength  in  sorrowing, 
but  remember  how  happy  you  will  be,  and 
how  happy  you  will  make  me,  if  my  death 
shall  make  you  love  God  and  the  Saviour 
more  than  ever,  and  fit  you  to  bless  and  help 
to  save  men.  Think  how  much  good  God  has 
enabled  dear  little  Agnes  to  do  through  us ; 
what  a  happy  eternity  she  will  have,  as  she 
traces  out  the  influences  of  her  death  far  dowm, 


AGNES. 


189 


It  ma)T  be,  to  the  judgment  day.  What  is  the 
mere  pleasure  of  meetings  and  recognitions, 
compared  with  this  ?  ” 

But  it  becomes  me  here  to  draw  the  veil, 
and  hide  from  view  the  “treasures  of  dark¬ 
ness”  connected  with  an  event  which  soon 
followed  this  conversation.  It  was  a  little 
coffin,  and  no  other,  that  furnished  the  key 
which  has  given  occasion  to  this  book. 


And  now  the  graves  of  Mother  and  Child 
lie  side  by  side  in  one  of  our  cemeteries. 
To  one  of  the  parents,  therefore,  the  key 
of  the  little  coffin  has  ceased  to  be  a  memo¬ 
rial  and  a  type,  for  the  child  is  restored  to 
her  embrace.  I  am  now  sole  proprietor  of 
the  little  key.  But  as  the  evening  star  now 
sets  earlier  daily,  and  hastens  below  the 
horizon  into  the  east,  so  the  sad  associations 
with  this  little  symbol  make  less  and  less  im¬ 
pression,  and  morning  airs  and  dawning  light 
are  taking  their  place.  As  I  was  last  week 


190 


A  ONES. 


planting  candy-tuft  and  the  marvel-of-Peru 
upon  those  graves,  —  varying,  as  I  love  to 
do  each  year,  the  annuals  or  biennials  which 
grow  there,  and  expecting,  without  fail,  to  see 
flowers  bloom  from  those  seeds, — I  thought  of 
what  was  planted  underneath,  and  how  certain 
it  is  that,  in  due  season,  I  shall  reap  if  I  faint 
not. 

I  feel  disposed  to  end  my  tale  in  keeping 
with  a  beautiful  epitaph  over  a  grave  near 
Athens,  in  Greece,  which  is  in  these  sweet 
words : 

Eubulus, 

Son  of  Laon, 

LIVED  SEVENTEEN  YEARS. 

FAREWELL. 

The  (C  farewell  ”  on  the  stone  is  to  the 
reader;  —  a  comely  act  of  gentle  behavior  in 
sorrow  to  the  stranger  whose  curiosity  should 
lead  him  to  approach  that  grave. 

So,  dear  reader,  Farewell !  Agnes  lived  a 
twelvemonth,  and  here  is  her  story. 

If  God  sees  fit  to  use  you  in  doing  good, 


AGNES. 


191 


and  would  qualify  you  for  great  enjoyment, 
here  and  hereafter,  he  can  accomplish  it,  per¬ 
haps,  in  no  way  more  effectually  than  by  put¬ 
ting  into  your  hands  the  key  of  some  pre- 
cious,  buried  treasure.  Again,  Farewell ! 


THE  END. 


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w.  H.  WHITING. 


JVo. 


**<  0('C^C<CAC»0'C' 


o<& 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

TICKNOR 

BV4907 

.A3 

1864 


